Like a bird that drifts on the storms of fools,
The poet cannot settle anywhere.
He is not satisfied with worldly schools.
His life hangs on a wing and a prayer.
Yet he creates new forms for curious eyes
And ears, often in the solitude of night.
In the spring of his promise, cruel winter dies.
He continually draws out the pure light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem