I am on the field drawing across your body:
Anonymous as you are to me,
Though you are over anxious that you should be found out;
The iconoclasts ripple. They are better than us,
And thus cannot be bothered with what we are doing,
Because you are just another muse in this big,
Big world in which I and
The fountains are coloring in.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem