Can a haiku grow up in a nonconformist season,
not listening to the count of syllables and political slogans,
not heeding the hooks of question marks
and the swords of an unseen samurai?
Did someone call me a haiku hunter who roams
in a place without spring, summer, autumn, winter,
without the moist lips of cherry petals
and without the kisses of a Japanese mermaid?
Alright, I'm a haiku bullfrog who runs away from labels
by plopping into a pond far away from Toyko.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem