The reflection of the orbiting eagle
in the white-capped lake
was somehow more beautiful than the bird;
the white peaks of the waves in the wind
accented the snowy feathers,
and the blacks and sepias
skipped on the water’s surface
like quarternotes on blue paper.
The circling of the bird of prey
sketched the parameters of the circular lake
and it became like a clockface,
with its armless hands tracking the time,
which was endless.
All angles become curves,
everything strives for roundness.
The bird will rest for awhile
only to resume its rotations,
ever searching for, perhaps,
its original place, its point of departure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem