Sweeping down merrily,
And stinging his tail,
Tired and dying,
Flying, worryingly.
Wings clipping in his cry,
A thorn in his wing,
I watch and I am helpless,
And the bird's still in his denial.
And he clips his wings, his tail is bitten,
And still in his denial,
Where he is tired but carries on,
Withered, when these words are written.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem