In sequence to right sky and right wing,
I felt an early morn when seven took on wing,
that birds have dreamt that all blue of sky
has melted and fallen as rain colouring roofs high,
corrugated and slanted as these are,
Piegons settling on them pecking in despair,
to retrieve whatever blue they can as heir.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem