Stillness in its tree ranks blown.
And where in their shades ran
A mixed finesse. Even ripplings
Hesitate; wet-pebbled runnings
Through what none o'erestimate in
The footfall of a man.
Atmosphere of fright! Air, thick in
What for a predator
Is produced. And supposedly I'm it!
From what indeed I Intuit
Myself to persuade otherwise
Pace a roe; shrewmouse, more!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An excellent poem. Well crafted......10+++