Silent as they've grown in deep water's bed
seeing up above the bottom, down a sledge
their short-sight shoots, its branches zooms
to tame the blue sky as it blooms.
Their delicate roots crawl in softly mud
where tiny fishes gathered as their habitat;
they stand like twigs of those green meadows
a sight-reach pole beneath, in a space windows.
Their bodies when cut, knitly weaved and daubed
will surely serve like a shepherd's swampland hub;
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem