An early morning breakfast of nature's breath, blowing everything,
making it move and sway in a silent rhythm.
An ocotillo reaching toward the sky, being stiffly blown to and
fro with a slight case of seeming arthritis.
Not mattering a bit, knowing movement is the best remedy for old
age and all it's senior problems to be lived with.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem