At a misty lake
Twelve critics asked
Old William Blake,
What is poetry?
As evening descended
The poet produced a ginger
And pointed to the moon
But they saw only
His finger.
Then an optimistic man
Recited Walt Whitman
To his sole companion
A young stallion.
And the keen
Sentient horse
Heard more
Than the prose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem