A small green beetle sat on my open page,
Antennae probing the wind like weather vanes.
His shell was a wet umbrella,
His ticklesome shadow, barely half an eyelash.
The sun lit a spot of fire on his domed back.
He moved like a war canoe propelled by six swift rowers;
Halfway over a comma, he paused to clean his two back legs,
A small fat ballet dancer tugging off his tights,
His voice so small it did not reach my ears.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.