IT IS sad to see
chickens
when the hour of
fading light comes
when they all start
to look up
and find their
respective roosting
places
upon their chosen
branch of the
tree,
it is like
going home
after the day
of pecking
grains, and when
full
you find
solace upon
a chosen home
as the night
starts to
cover
everything.
it is like
death to me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem