the door is high on the mountain
if a fish swims its way it is more probable that
its fins are torn before it even reached one of the banks
of the river
below the feet of grassy lands
the old wise man once tells the story of the
great fish who made it there flying with the power
of a borrowed wing
a friend to the winds
humble to the reeds
and the fish as soon as its gills become adopted
to the hazards of mountain peaks
suddenly turn into a dragon
heir to the thrown of the volcanic kingdom
how it has learned to breath fire
and spit embers
how it has grown leather like wings
and sharp scalpel nails
is a legend
that old men always want to tell to their grandchildren
with nothing in mind that they shall become great
(and never like them who have succumbed
as mere fish bone thrown into infamous pits)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem