Out fly the fowl
Like feathers from a bolster
And who comes last but the rooster.
Pausing to raise a leg,
Stretch a claw,
As though easing on a glove
Before his morning stroll.
Attached to my hands
By strings of grain
I move the flock across the yard
And back again.
Back again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem