fading flight losing a distance
across lakes; spotted sands
winter dried grass; sprouting
bristles so sharp protruding
from went crumpled leaves
disturbed by claws of night
pools of yester rain drains
sticky for ball coming down
same; crisp blades of mine
asked gods; perpetual motion
not giving help today; not soon
i always keep my ball airborne
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem