What you do when the world comes around,
the sound of waves, coming down and down,
An endless torrent, something you would wish,
to end, finally, to stop the coming of the fish.
For they waddle, they snake, around each living ripple,
they are, they make, every person riddled,
for each is his own, no blame can be put on thee,
though the fish make up all that is the deep blue sea.
How the unabashed waves grow in magnitude,
Each wonders, each slakes, its thirst in multitude.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem