Hunted down by unknown tracters
by whims of their own agony
creeping like woodworm sacked...
about to obey shouts outside
while the prey hunters slowly,
gently, crawling the camped slot!
Which one is not belonging
to this lowlied feathers
by the wings of an embicile?
Which one is not searching
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem