he guts numbers with letters,
and letters with words,
conquering sentences,
as the day pushes onwards.
he slays grammar with artistry,
and succumbs to definitions.
he retreats to the trenches
to rethink his execution.
he skirmishes with convention,
and emerges with a vengance,
wiping out the quotidian,
with armies of redundance.
thus ends the campaign,
he wipes the sweat off his brow,
surveys the vanquished,
and is pleased, for now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
laura: yes i have: D sometimes, my dad plays it in the car. war: you're just biased! poetry hound: thanks