Looking at the butcher
As time ticks away
Red bull obliviously stares the space
Its all but the last stare.
That the red bull
Has no horns to fight
The butcher's knife
And becoming some added job for chef.
If all were mine
I would have made
The time to follow the bull's wishes
That I would make room for bulls' wishes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem