Prettier face, longer legs and a more voluptuous pout,
That is all his life has ever been about.
Hovering around a flower until her honey runs out,
then moving on to greener pastures without a second glance or a single doubt.
Never looking back at the carnage or witness them wither.
Never waiting long enough to allow them to blossom.
Lamenting about how hard it gets when the spark dies.
Never wasting a thought on the life encompassed with cries.
Then the day arrives when he cries himself,
and he comes back to the ones he had left bereft.
Not really interested in how they had been treated.
Only to figure out how they had coped.
He takes from their kindness and does what he does best,
Leaves again on his unending selfish quest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem