Oars pulled like blazed arrows
their sinew-driven blades lost in calamity,
stirring mighty vortices to dance in their wake.
Bow nodding with strained approval,
cuts through water made of rain.
The oars, released, pass through air
only to return to the depths once again,
their exertion quickening a rite of passage.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem