The Kite

My soul is like a kite

and the string is in your hands.

It is wild as the wind and disobedient

and the string is in your hands.

Now it plays merrily with the wind,

soars effortlessly in the clouds,

now it shudders and dies

and catches the air stertorously

and he, below, stands, laughs—

he loves to watch.

The kite threshes, the wind swirls,

wanting to wear through the string.

Translated by Richard McKane