The hummingbird thumbs
A flower of thought
In its tongue
Of Indian ink
It sips and then spills
A thousand souls
Before it spills
It's own,
And piercing the wind
Like a mountain peak
With the weaving
Of a soul to keep;
This little bird brings us
Sweet pressed blooms
To incense us for hours
In the glory of love
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem