Die Frucht rollte bis zum allem Tag. Sie beteten die Zhne wrden kriechen; Sie dachten an Samstag Bezahlung und Sonntag Schlaf.
Was auch immer er roch, war gut: Die Frucht- und Fleischgeruche mischten. Dort neben ihm stand sie, - - und er, verdutzt;
Er, in seinem geschrumpfte britches, die Augen, die mit Essiggurke eingefat werden, wischen, Prickling mit ganzem itches von der sechzehn-Jahr-alten Sinneslust ab.
Volunteers needed to translate poetry into different languages. Please help us correct the translation of these poems. We currently have 79,663 translations and are trying to create the largest and most accurate database of world poetry translations. We have started with machine translations which are very inaccurate. Please translate your favorite poem on this site. You will be given credit for your translation and a link to your site if desired. COPYRIGHT NOTICE: These poems have been gathered and submitted by many of people, and from many sources. Most have no copyright. However, some may may have copyrights. We have tried to collect poems that appear on many external sites where the author seems to want to disseminate. If you are an author and do not want your poetry translated into other languages then send a removal request and it will be promptly removed.
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