The place of
the morning flamingo,
Where the summer sun
rises and never sets.
They greet with
nodding eyes of indigo;
this,
in a time of
placing our best bets,
for no fire
but ample rain
fills the shores
of Shadow lake;
upon which these majestic
pink birds dwell.
They build their homes
in the muddy bake,
one whose moist and softened
sludge serves them well.
Catch a fear,
catch a fright;
You will never
catch them in the mire.
These prudent trotters
Whose bowed heads
follow the fire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Try whose, not who's. They mean different things.. I like stick trotters. Coushins? Cushions? Now I am not sure! Nice. Bri :)