Adeptly do you prick, thorn.
Well do you bite, cruel small arrows of the earth.
Slack, slow, carelessly heavy
my foot rests on the road.
Compelled harshly to tension,
when thorns sting,
my smarting foot flexes to run -
in flight onward it runs.
For more information, please visit the website
of David McDuff and his
own pages with the translations.