When I was young
my grandfather
handed me
his 22
to shoot the owl
perched in the tree
I shot the owl
who held wide fathomless eyes
on me
then fluttering
fell through the leaves
Fifty years later
the tree is still there
And
the owl is still fluttering
down through the air
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is beautiful. I love this poem.