The windfarmer was thirty
When Sputnik was launched.
He woke the kids who followed
His finger across the night sky
Of a new nativity.
He returned to the tractor,
Ploughed years of soil,
Planted rows of questions,
Tilled crops and cared
For animals.
He wind farms now;
Stands beneath the behemoth blades
Turning over the air we breathe,
Felling the clouds,
And harvesting the wind.
The mills are run by a distant orbiter.
His farm he calls Sputnik.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very nicely envisioned and presented. Beautiful poem I like most. Thanks.