On your hand
small and somewhat brittle I am,
another insect ready to be squashed
with protruding tentacles
sensing the air
attentive like the rising hairs
on your arm,
charming like an innocent
green little thing
but to other insects
deadly I am
always prowling
ready to hunt
with eyes protruding
being erect like in prayer
but then striking
at the next moment
is very near.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem