To the seagull high above the pine-woods of the coast, on the wind the sibilant syllable of my ode.

Sail
bright boat,
winged banner,
in my verse,
stitch,
body of silver,
your emblem
across the shirt
of the icy firmament,
oh, aviator,
gentle
serenade of flight,
snow arrow, 
serene
ship in the transparent storm,
steady,
your soar
while
the hoarse wind weeps
the meadow of the sky.

Forgive me,
seagull,
I hate you...
I'm a realist
You eat,
and eat
and eat
there is nothing
you don't devour.
I concentrate to you
Seagull
my earthbound words,
my clumsy attempt at flight;
let's see whether you scatter
your birdseed in my ode.