Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
Play louder.
You will not succeed. I am
bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A good poem with such beautiful narration.