it is hard to understand
what you really want, for
yesterday you said you like
meat, balls, and now you say
you vomit even the thought of
it, and you say you like a lettuce
and then when the lettuce came you
said you hate it, and you like
a rabbit, and i put this black
magic, a rabbit in your sleep
and you said you are dying with
the rabbit, a white rabbit, and
then the rabbit dies, and you say
you hate rabbits, and you like knives
and i stop catering to what you
like, you hate rabbits, and i know
for now what you want and i really
do not like it. I have no knife
to begin with, and i do not like
knives, or blood or dead rabbits.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem