A tree asked a man: Why is your winged body
butterflied on the ground?
Who do you slave for
when the time is half past piffle?
You've been unearthing lifespans
of wildlife action, and your skin
excretes terrible secrets.
The tree said, Why?
Why are you searching
for value sparkles
where only newtons of nowt
have been hidden?
[First published in The New Ulster Magazine, Northern Ireland]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem