The sky is high; 
the wings beat hard; 
but none
receives (with joy or indifference) , 
nor wants, 
nor sees, 
nor cares; 
and the offerings are reduced 
to battered feathers
scattered on a frozen pond.
(25 November 2006)                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    