Sycamore seeds put pin prick roots
into soft earth to suck up minerals,
like rows of butterflies
sucking salt from the sand,
waving brittle wings like bat's ears,
drawing shawls about their shoulders,
like women gossiping at a village fair.
The gardener, fussy official, moves them on.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem