At the back of the bay,
The little golden fish lay,
Born in the month of May,
Eating bales of hay,
without pay,
swimming back and forth everyday,
But he looks for a friend to play,
with whom he can gay,
And play in the clay,
still in hope he stay,
to find a way,
into the ocean far away,
so he can live without delay.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem