The unseeing waxwing which once was slain
By the false azure of the windowpane
Has picked up his shadow and carried on
Past the wilderness of that crystal lawn.
Drunk on berries, he had mistook the glass
For the heavens through which once he had passed;
The reflections of the cerulean sky
Formed a mirage that fooled the waxwing’s eye.
Fallen then back to the snow-covered ground,
Become silent with nary chirp or sound,
The stilled bird lay bleeding upon the white,
Unmoving still as day turned into night.
Thus I rose to the place where once I saw
The waxwing race through the bleak ice’s thaw.
I took in my hands that form without breath
And cast it high, that it see not death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem