Timid is the poet
Who only scans a line-
Tripled spaced, collated
Outside the gentle breeze.
Double turn,
Each in its place -
Spill a little laughter,
Wipe a little face.
Dream in turn
Swatches of blue
Velvet rope -
Walking on red.
Tremble before speaking
To make the words squeak
Poetry is not for cowards
But for brigands and thieves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem