I hit balls in high arc
spiraling downwards at
very high speed; lost
lost in plane view; buried
somewhere in wet grass
I have to wait for rain
to clear debris around
I started with sixty five
I end up with forty two
tomorrow I will bring knife
to dig those balls buried
in mud, or stick to pry them
out of their temporary hide
if nobody beat me to it
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem