A specific whirlwind
Was in duty by the ceiling,
Knowing not the fate of a beauty fleeting,
Who turned pale and Panic,
As she lost the tender hold
Of her brilliant wings.
What a struggle, to save
A few moments most precious
From the fated, feeble pulses!
Not many a years, like man, is ahead
For her to take risky chances.
From the soft pearl-shaped egg
To the tender leaf-eater duly turned
Into the adorned cocoon towards the
Ephemeral liberty of colors and mirth,
She already has had her fated struggle.
A merciful finger-mission rescued
Her from the innocent fatality.
When the leaves of the wind appeared clearer,
She got control of her proud wings and sense
To cheerfully dance around radiating gratitude.
Her concept of nature, a virgin paradise,
Has been polluted and maimed
By the inconsiderate, beyond measures
Causing, even imaginations loss wings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem