It was a dire emergency,
something no frog appreciates.
A stork, his home a fancy nest
on top of the red-tiled roof,
had stabbed his hungry beak
into the gutter for a bit of green.
Frantically, since there was work to do
a veritable mountainrange of leaves
and unmentionable things
were stuck inside the downpipe
at the junction.
It was the hardest ever job he'd done,
the largest meal that could be eaten
and the happiest of all the days
a frog could even visualize.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem