Popgun oasis
On the end of
A candle stick—
Jack a hurdler of
The snout of
Windmills—
Dreaming if climbing
Up Jupiter,
Fleet as a
Javelin over
The gerunds of
They valley—
Sure as an
Arrow knowing
The harvest
From the orchards
Of its time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem