Why am I surprised I feel a coot? 
Like the ladybug that was my happiness, 
Just got trodden on by a big, fat, wellington boot? 
And that light-cutting black
crushed that bug extra good, 
under its airless weight.  
Just to make sure.
Juices oozed, 
exoskeleton shards on the tarmac.
Good and dead.
A stain on grey.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                     
                
sometime writing can make you realize something was missing!