The little birds say flight is sacred,
For the day rises and falls like the heart
And the heart rises and falls like the sea,
Many fly from the heart that resides merrily.
But we are on land weeping,
Saving our breath for the outdoors.
Our blood is a menace to little babies,
Who cry out with pain and love.
But the flying ones are lying down,
Fit for the fields of Summer and Spring,
Kissing the stones of their forefathers
With their wings, strangely replying to Nature.
A sun has appeared on the line that exists,
With the earlier hearing, with the sublime one,
Forming a soul towards the horizon,
The corporeal appetites mend the way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem