He has built himself a cottage in a wood, near where the insect rubs its wings in song.
Yet, without measure, or proper sense of scale, he has made the cottage too small. He realizes this when only his hand will fit through the door. He tries the stairs to the second floor with his fingers, but his arm wedges in the entrance. He wonders how he will cook his dinner. He might get his hands through the kitchen window. But even so, he will not be able to cook enough on such a tiny stove.
He shall also lie unsheltered in the night, even though a bed with its covers turned down waits for him in the cottage.
He lies down and curls himself around the cottage, listening to the insect that rubs its wings in song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem