There are so many trees in poetry,
so many birds
and so much love,
the world is almost Heaven -
it feels somehow sickly sweet.
Perhaps I should sing the desert -
noon stillness,
the sleeping sea of sand,
what should be my brand?
Or the desert storm,
the scorching sun,
scorpions and deadly serpents,
dryness of sand against my skin,
the wind is my robe, my next of kin.
On the wing of wind’s ring
I should sing,
just to break this monotony.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem