Already accustomed to the procedure,
it isn't long till one
flutters down from the sky to clutch
the edge of my hand;
a moment more to twitch and eye
the seed in my palm, select
two or three, and flit away—
—such delicate talons!
the sensation lingers, engendering
a tenuous ache
—a millet of love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem