Sprinters are on a racing track
Sun, breeze, thousand eyes get lost
Senses perceive target line
The pouncing pose yields tornado speed.
Fast past faster choke the air
It's a long long racing track
Seconds past, the world is in rhythms.
Mouthful of morsels, purse-full of dimes
with a feather in winner's cap
are the gains from races of life,
from hot field ball games, greasy professions.
Rest of runners also shine
as a moon or morning star or distant glows,
all are happy in own ways.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem