Below is a block of text, purloined from Wordsworth (whose deathiversary today is), and warped through multiple retranslations into a variety of languages and then back into English.
Ponder the weirdness of it, and then use it to leap off into a new poem of your own. You aren’t trying to restore the original – this is just something to get you going.
It’s beautiful, peace. An open night, listen to the rest of the seafood in peace. Listen. A powerful animal is not sleeping, it’s like a baby’s seriousness, thanks for the small baby’s constant speed! Beautiful girl! He who comes to me is true; we were shipped at regional’s temple. We do not know that regional with you.
Those who want to know what on earth this poor poem started as, clicking on the picture of Wordsworth will link you to the original poem on Wikipedia. But don‘t do it until you’ve had a go at the exercise!
A Dark Feathered Art 