When I was only
as high
as the small hedges
that divided farms,
I walked this land,
ragged as the wool
that hung
from razored thorns.
The sun burned red
as I feasted on berries,
quenched my excited thirst
from then crystal streams.
My knees, from play,
the colour
of odd-one-out sheep
and the green
of natures dyes.
My music,
the song
of thrush and lark;
who sang warnings to others,
to keep an eye peeled
for this hunter….
who carried no sack
or blew no horn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice theme i like it :)