I am the mighty chamomile.
Only to you lowly-
ach, it's hot!
rooted, immobile, here,
I've a knack
to spin from sunshine, soil and rain
nothing less fine than a flower,
super-seeding mine own
existential dilemma;
if that means naught to you
we shall see you yet, the winter come,
sitting foot propped up
sipping rich and steamy,
salty-sweet,
infusions of me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem