From an unknown place it came through
Perhaps from nearby woods
along with the sudden south breeze
to touch the earthly goods
It came not from a flightless bird
but from a bird that soared
as high above as it could be
Its feather was ignored
It was freed from the bird’s body
It was fallen but fresh
Dull olive green with pale red shades
Not as red as man’s flesh
Colours created or altered
Feather remained the same
innocent enough to drift by
With no life it was tame
But it kept on drifting away
feeling a little ill
its colour allured all senses
to be a feather still
It stopped by when the cool breeze slowed
Under an old oak tree
And asked him if he knew the bird
that cared to set it free
The old tree answered- “That Bird’s dead”
Pain struck the feather’s will
And suddenly it just wanted
To be a poet’s quill”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem