The old shed sits askew on rollicking wavy hills.
Rocked and rolled by time and wind relentless.
It sits yielded, poised, defiant, with a lilt of tilt
To hum, as it rides out its days of torment and stress.
For old of age, an awry lean out of kilter
Endears and protects sheds from being taken down.
When upright cronies with faked, adroit charm and grace,
Look out of place, and just old and decrepit.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem