I saw him for only a moment,
dark against the beclouded sky.
It's larger than a sparrow,
but striped sorta like one,
with a blue crescent on its breast,
the only true lark
native to the New World.
It nests on the ground
as early as February.
It sways in flight,
a soft simple tingle.
Of course, he was a myth
or a miracle,
like those tongues of fire,
like those arrows of desire.
Watch out, watch out.
I'm at the very top of the ladder -
the very last rung.
No sinew, or adrenalin,
only air
is all there is
there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem