Buzz, Buzz, buzzing around
Annoying incessant sound
Slowly driving me insane
As it permeates the brain
For sleep I yearn
While in my bed I turn
Sweltering humid night
It's death such a delight
A sudden swatting hand
As on my face it does land
No more does it light
The fly has flown it's final flight
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Twenty-five years ago, a friend of mine shot, with a rubber band, a fly that had landed on the TV screen. He hit it and it stuck there to the glass. A few minutes later we got up to go look at it- -up-close. Really up-close. and bathed in the glow of the sreen, and the tiny, individual colored dots that were now entirely visible, we could see that fly ejecting tiny, translucent worms, (maggots) onto the glass. Lots of 'em. I like your poem and can relate to it. If there is a fly in my house I will kill it before going to bed, even if it takes a half-hour to hunt him down.