I practiced non-flying things,
And tangled my strings,
Took the wind and turned it upside down;
I broke all my struts,
Ran along frozen ruts
Flatly refused to leave the ground;
My plastic sheets flapped,
To their crooked frame strapped,
Billowed briefly the string held taut;
But then held sullenly to the hill
Let sweep over the gale's chill
And defied the air's onslaught;
The magnetic allure,
With gravity the cure,
Over-ruling any pathetic uplift
Of the windy day,
Trying to take me away
My leaden and clinging feet shift;
The blue January skies
To which you had lifted your eyes
In such heady anticipation;
Held in lofty dreams a dearth,
And the centre of the earth,
Became a far more likely destination;
So cowering wind and gale
That through the long grasses flail
Tottering the chimneys and masts;
Take your misgiven powers
That trembles the flowers
That wake us with your harsh blasts;
And blow yourself out
No longer the fence clout
Let me fly on a soft breeze that yields
To my colourful display
Which would flutter and sway
Over the mazy patchwork of fields
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem