Wrapped in the tang of the morning,
I stand at the edge of a stone quay.
Above my head a tilted sky
spills like a conjuror's hat, the air alive
with contending cries as day renews
to rowdy light and gulls inspect their cargoes.
Scraps thrown, offal, anything is what they consume;
and as if to exist were their only function,
their greed is a celebration
of what has willed them into flight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem