Like the heart
the crouching kiewiet
rises and darts
to practise its deceit:
lest I encroach
it gets up and sprints
at the first sign of approach
urgently hints
with its lonely cry:
what I nurture must lie
unfound, unseen:
do not look for me where I have been.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem