what's so funny about raising an ostrich?
with only a few square yards of mud in a zoo,
aren't the legs too long?
the neck, isn't it too long?
in a country of falling snow
aren't its wings too ragged?
because the stomach is empty
I guess it eats tough loaves of bread,
yet the ostrich eyes are looking
only at a distance, aren't they?
is it burning desperately?
is it waiting for the coming
of the blue wind?
is there a surge of the dreams of infinite
in that small simple head?
this is not an ostrich any more,
is it?
people, stop doing this.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem