it is the green grass
those new ones that make
the old carabao strong.
the black bulky thing that
grazes on the young grass
under the sun, rests on the
mud hole still chewing the
taste of grass, the youth
in there, that stays in its
stomach, digesting the
nutrients of life, the
happiness of sap.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem