He abandons his car where
it exhausts all its motion.
First of his disciple, a goat,
takes a mouthful of handbills.
Hours later he can hear all
the literature rumbling.
He converts a fence into
a blur. A cloud into
a roof ornament. Balls some
words, sows them along a wall.
On a rock, sunny side up,
he sits, pats the place beside,
says, sit, son. The plants will
take their sweet time to grow up.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem