I observe the red squirrel
from the kitchen window,
paused on a branch, acorn
in mouth, looking like
a knick-knack on a shelf.
I know what he’s thinking,
because I am thinking it too.
Surely life must be more
than accumulating,
and stashing away,
more than mere
industrialization.
But maybe not, thinks the red squirrel;
but maybe so, think I.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem