for all those that we have not done
and tarried and
procrastinated we go acidic
and our intestinal linings bleed
like hell on
Thursday nights
and for all those that we have done or claim to have finished
on Fridays before we sleep
we say after we have prayed for the judgment
of our creations
we have so justly
died.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem