People walked away,
sometimes ran away, but the white goose
shadowed him, and hissed off
drunken poets enraged by Plato's Republic.
As it studied him, head
on one side, slow love
cracked the shell of his heart:
engraved on his tomb
was that bumptious waddle,
beak in the air, and strident honk
faithfully echoed by
the bird in pursuit of
the bag of corn round his waist.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem