There is a fish, that quivers in the pool,
itself a shadow, but its shadow, clear.
Catch it again and again, it still is there.
Against the flowing stream, its life keeps pace
with death - the impulse and the flash of grace
hiding in its stillness, moves to be motionless.
No net will hold it - always it will return
Where the ripples settle, and the sand -
It lives unmoved, equated with the stream,
As flowers are fit for air, man for his dream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem