When the trees even
Through the cold
Grow large and stay green
There can only be small hops
Of brilliant colors
Chasing after the glows
Of flies and the butters
Of worms
But even this smudge
Didn't escape the notice
Of wide black eyes
From the river's edge
Bufo Bufo
Stood upright
And walked
His face straight up
To the mountain forests
He could taste
The warm wriggling
In his tummy
He learned to stretch
His arms and legs
Until he could crawl
Up the cruels of the
Gray stone and then
Engulf baby frogs
In his deep mouth
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem