The Farmer spoke to the Winter'd Fox,
"The bane of my existence will meet it's demise
Perhaps by the tip of my arrow's blunt despise
To rid the land of this horrid pox."
The cornered Fox then said, "For my part,
My role's been defined, with few if any mishaps
Excluding your mischievous and sharp, muddled traps,
That tries to stop me before I start."
The Farmer knocked an arrow and stretched his bow taut
Rejoicing that his trip would not be for naught
The Farmer replied, "Yet by some mean,
Your art requires such a narrow, cunning sense
That makes this task so important in my defense
To what the hunted hunter has seen."
The fox replied, looking to his side,
"You ask the same question of me, at very least
One who wished the other no peace be the true beast
To be wary of the fickle tide."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem