(song of the pangolin for world pangolin day)
(i)
I have shielded
myself
with stony wood,
as I roll through
seas of shrubs
and low grasses,
my only
outfit. My only
cottage and fortress.
I have grown
into stone
and still bone
with my piece
of silence
building me up
into a crawling
earth cloud,
as I hang out
away
from tramping feet.
Following
my traces
to a numen of rock.
(ii)
Lurking through
tunnels
of protruding stones
cemented
with dust and clay,
I have sprayed
my own dark skies
on ceilings of rock,
growing only
black flowers of night
to clothe me
with a blanketed fabric,
O dust stroking me
all day, as I roll
through tunnels of gravel
and paw-unchewed sands
dressing me up
in thick flannels of dust.
Lodge me,
O low skies
of arched tall grasses
making
herringbone weaves,
my only holed roofs
in my hide-out,
as thunder falls
from a muzzle's mouth
chipping off
my wooden stony skin.
(iii)
Leave me alone,
as I cruise off
like a ground missile
to the fortress
of my paired family,
a sweet buddy
chuffing and grunting
in a humming
in a whispering wind.
On rock, I spin,
a piece of rock
molded by rock
into a rocky climb,
as gale thrusts
arrows of haze,
and a flying dust binds.
On rock I'm rock.
Let my flying scales
hover off
like flitting stars,
as I'm spared
to grow
into a rock-clothed soldier
to fight for you.
February's third
Saturday
lands on stones,
broken snow,
the wheels
of love
from far flung lands
waving soft breezes
I don't wear,
as I breathe in dust.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem