Monkey, you walk on the bottom of the sky,
and if I were like you what then of me.
Monkey, high in the tree and clouds around you,
and like cotton they are as you pull them apart.
Monkey there they are now amongst you, warm stars,
and as the fruit hangs within reach, ripe you gather.
Monkey, after you make the rain come down, what is left.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem