She takes her broom to wildly sweep.
Keeps an occasional eye on the sky.
We take a personal look at her dust heap.
She remains dauntless, shy, and spry.
Locals might see her as joyful and worryless.
Oh, how abruptly they scorn and project.
But she continues to sweep on, in fairness.
There are no excuses disclosed; inspect.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem