Hey, Woodpecker,
why the heck are you so loud,
as if I didn’t know your whereabouts?
Are you making a racket
solely to shatter the woods’ solitude?
What do you mean, you’re lonely?
Those snails and squirrels,
aren’t they watching your pranks?
The purple-feathered bird,
wasn’t he playing with you yesterday?
Ah, Woodpecker!
Most lonely is my poetry,
struggling my whole life in dry riverbeds,
in images of a dewed rose
illuminating the dim forest,
witnessing cold-hearted people,
overlooking her, trampling,
wearing contemptuous sneers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem