“Seagulls are the souls of dead sailors, ”
she said.
So now,
I give to each feathered mariner
a grisly siren fable
or naggle bearded shanty.
But those canny sailors
don’t listen.
They just take to the sky,
swooping a trusty once
to steal my chips.
“Aha, ” I say,
“pirates.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem