A hoist my hope of better days...
Raise them, best, as not dismayed.
Dismayed less, than days long gone...
Transformed more better, than deer-swept Fawn.
Hunted behind the burnt ashed bush...
Smoldered blacker than their, buck shot ted, tush.
Rounds spent up faster than time spent last...
No more fouler than fouled and trashed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem