Two years ago, the Ferris Wheel
offered you a view.
It’s true that time runs out
to an ordered plan
of Swings-and-Roundabouts.
This, plainly, is
your real property:
a foreign garden
bordering your neighbour’s land.
Under a hat in France, Ivan
picked ripened strawberries; like you,
docile as a child who dreamed
of breaking rules and making clean
fast getaways at night.
And though your old man’s last loss
of the plot earned him that right
to See-Saw-down the next-door-
fella’s tree,
the snoring sway of circumstance
snuffed out his chance to flee England-
while you soared, free.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem