The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me – he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable;
The last scud of day holds back for me;
I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the runaway sun;
I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love;
You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean;
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;