In which river did the fish swim
that mistook for a fly a hook on a line
so drew its last, that a silver blade
could pare from its flesh its still fresh
weed-green skin, to be cured
then eased around this little case,
which contains the doctor's
shoal of fleams, and the keen one
he's pressing now to your inner arm,
so a mere flick opens a vein
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem