Wringing tunes from out the ether
For his bliss.
Birds' own realm of expertise
Borders this!
That shimmer-weave of purer light.
Sourced back to
No angel in the morning;
Thrush inflame.
But one, wraps, for man's acclaim
God's throned view.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem