The song of the kingfisher hear I singing from the top of the tress,
Perched on the high twigs and boughs
And singing from there,
The song of life, the zest of living.
The bird appears to be a painted doll with bluish and grey shreds and shades
But the billed and beaked bird
Very prompt at catching small fish,
Waiting and waiting and diving to take on from the tree.
The song of the kingfisher hear I, but the song aking me to water bodies
Where it can flit about, wait for and catch at
By diving into the surface waters a little bit
To peck at and to pick into its bill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem