A flight on a lake is skidding like that,
A swanning obvious one, a skimming release
Of energetic gust and water, a water too late.
He is burdened by me, by my singing song
Of water and Handel like comfort an island.
His live is a sensible one, a swan’s life,
Identical to a bird that poisoned myself
By its wings and breast.
Why deader poultry catches my drift?
Because livers and heads too hairy
Are on the front of my memory.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem