Foxes of yesteryears
Too early in morning
down long hall am walking
many doors on each side
can hear the loud sounds
of TVs, Radios.
“The oldies are awake…”
I murmur, counting on:
“most of them, if not all
are useless, sick jackals.”
Angry, firmly walk
inside me shouts; I talk:
“Foxes of yesteryears
now living in ant-holes
never leave their place
if they do leech crawls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem