Twice my fun has begun,
Open the door to some ghost,
Once a middle name is learnt,
Join the brigade of the Sun.
Join the messenger of the gun,
He is called gunner over-burnt,
Gunman of the supper-sonnet,
Real person, real tonne.
Because I have many colours,
Something blue, and already new,
Like red and green, of the leaf.
Going the way so tailors,
Like or love a station of you,
Often over you so many creators.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem