He Painted The Same Sparrow
when he was born
he was already destined to paint a sparrow
with black ink on white paper
he kept on painting time and time again
the same sparrow in different appearances
the same sparrow in different places
the same sparrow in different seasons
the same sparrow upon a tree
the same sparrow on the ground
the same sparrow in its youth
the same spparow in its old age
he painted the same sparrow
the only sparrow
in his childhood
boyhood
adult hood
old age
all his life
one gray winter morning
alone in a shack in the field of snow
when everything was silent and still
he painted
a dead sparrow
then he died
it was the only dead sparrow
he ever painted
they found that last painting of his
next to his dead body
several days later
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem