They are painters on skates,
brushing and dabbing the cold canvas
on which they glide and whirl.
They are sleep-walkers
in colorful pajamas, wandering
on the bright stage of a dream,
everyone else in darkness,
looking on, fascinated.
They are hornets and wasps
in dubious and snarling battle,
released in groups from their
nests, terribly distracted by one
black fly that moves among
them imperviously.
hans ostrom 2017
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I simply love this poem. You are a master!