Mornings were created for the innocent animals,
To see their way, in bramble, on paths where,
Forever their brothers, predators, waited...
In shadows, under bowers, and treetop high.
Noontimes were created for each of them,
To see each the other, when heat forced
Lack of energy to run...to run...turn to fight,
Die, and lay limp on ground, as the victor.
Nightimes were created, also, for each...
Eyes from under logs saw predators turn, but
This, the little things' mistake. For leaving
Safety means death for some. Never heeding
Safety, as predator, also means death, at times.
Circlings of the Wheel...for Great and Small.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Fascinating structure that strikes me as concentric circles - one the cycle of times of day and the other the cycle of life and death. It's sonnet form seems to express the rule of order that governs the passing of days and existence itself.