I feel about this small,
a thimbel shaped growth,
unshaped and common.
Who are they? not me,
not her, not him, no sense,
of identity nor of sense.
swelled.
Cold like a snake,
barb poised.
What am I? Dispute it,
You know better.
Injured and fat, lie like
a great serpent.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem