March flies swarm and spill.
Blistered prints of dragon-flies and frogs.
Dream zones of bright verdure.
A shell, its nose held up,
crumbles at the merest touch,
but the hard edge holds:
this instrument sounds like
an owl call, as I stride into
the summer forest, owls about.
Translated into English by Justin Quinn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem