Who would be bound
By such small world,
And lily curled?
With whirligig and skater’s skim
And quacking ducks, bustling in,
Noisy in their churn about,
Then on their way, winging out.
But an ancient carp still pounds the beat,
'Neath winter ice and summer heat,
Just sucking mud and cursing luck,
And wishing he could be a duck.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem