Looking up I see
an old bird resting upon a tree.
As I circle the tree round and round,
the bird makes not a move.
Perhaps too spent
to fly away anymore.
I can relate.
We've both been here for a very long time,
swaying in the breeze
like an old outlaw
at the end of his rope,
just hanging around,
out on a limb,
waving goodbye.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good one old friend.