Muzzle the ape, that
bleeds the tall tree,
tearing apart the blue birds.
I saw it coming.
I was overwrought; watching a
beheading― of the innocent,
in the town square.
People standing in queues to
grab the voodoos.
When you will end my woes
basking in the glory of blood?
O god, take away my chips,
my papers,
my pen.
I am tired of this deceit of man.
Everybody walks like a saint
on the holy banks
where flows the river of tears.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The existence of my neighbor's dog was once contested by a philosopher and high-priestess in an obscure internet sect. She argued that for that dog to exist its bark could not conceivably be worse than its bite. It was a gentle old dog, now so sedate it barely stirred. And toothless as a newborn.