Birds...
I am jealous of you.
You can fly.
I cannot.
You can touch the sky.
I cannot.
Yet, sometimes you fly to high.
The burning sun melts your wings make of wax.
The higher up you flew,
the farther down you fell.
For that,
I am glad,
I am not a bird.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem