Magritte stuffs it all in his pipe that's not a pipe,
smokes out a thought.
A Bewick's Wren alights
"wheat, wheat" shaking
the holly-tree, a bird that's not a bird.
I would have changed places - that debonair
Wren with the white stripe over the eyebrow.
The force of song sung by a Bewick's Wren,
a fun song filled with purpose,
out for a quick date, watching too
for the feckless worm.
Sitting, singing notes on a page, moving
on in the morning, neither there nor here,
no treachery of images.
Magritte, come quick, create a chair
that's not a chair;
sketch me a Wren.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem