I hear the kettle whistling
And putting off hot steams
Of boiling water.
I hear the kettle whistling
A boiling tune,
Mournful and arid,
Like the howling of
The midnight dogs.
I hear the kettle whistling
Another morning
Of another day
To travel the cemented gardens
And concrete jungles
Of the world.
I hear the kettle whistling
And realized by its rhythm
That it is time to move
On.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem