In our slowly mobile homes
round the garden plants we roam.
Every night we come as thieves,
greedily devour the leaves.
Gardeners hate us - try to kill us -
with their poison salt they fill us,
so there, amidst the pots and gnomes,
you'll see our empty snail-shell homes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem