All the new birds
are made of nothing.
They have nothing inside
(for anti-ballast)
and those insides
are surrounded
in an outside nothing
that has its own
flibberti hole.
The birds,
they're nothinging
up there
in the nothing trees,
or on nothing roofs
under a nothing sky.
They fly of course,
but what is flying
if not nothing?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
''Waldron's virtuosic deployment of language – combining different registers, coining new words and reutilising old ones – remains a constant, and a constant source of enjoyment.'' [Emily Hasler, in 'Poetry International Web']