Hoopoe, merry bird the poets slander,
you revolve your crest atop the pole
which sticks up in the air atop the henhouse
so that like a weathercock you spin round in the wind;
hoopoe, you’re the harbinger of spring,
as if for you time’s stopped
and February never dies,
as if the world beyond you rolls out
following the movement of your head,
a fact of which you’re unaware, you sprite with wings.