i can not come often enough;
and it is luck that lets us rest,
upon this grassy ridge.
and the stream beneath us
runs oft there,
as it flows between the rocks.
even if it is, as a child i think
i would now why it flows,
into that crack and where it goes.
and my hands are slippery as i
do go off,
and try to gain us perches there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem