Poetry speaks of winds
as she herself is the wind Sirocco.
Lashes the soul with dew and ice
never warms her as she burns.
Addressed her only to the birds
who live in the winds alone.
Perhaps few men are worthy
to have for themselves the frugal food.
No comment about the gluttonous reptiles
or any four-legged creature that can't fly.
It is for poetry that birds live
and we for them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yes you have captured the heart of poetry indeed.Another ten from me.