I stand in a puddle with my feet
to the puddle - that's his job
he comes out with a coated tail
the web that smells on my feet
I'll whistle for steam coming
so thoughtfully, like the bagpiper
I whistled to an earlier age...
It rains to grow mud on my feet
beets, a pious whitewash
and I listen to my thinking
the rain falls on the barefoot
for unemployed workers
falls on the trembling age
on the soft ground, property
cushioned, civilian homes
fall, fall, because that's his business
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It rains to grow mud on my feet beets, a pious whitewash and I listen to my thinking the rain falls on the barefoot fall, fall, for that is h is business. very nice poem. rain, nature, its effects and your wonderful presentation. tony