Thousands of black leaves in the trees
When there should be none.
Leaves immune to the cold winter wind,
Leaves with tiny yellow eyes.
Silent. Staring.
A clap of thunder and they take flight,
Almost frightening in their numbers.
They darken the sky,
Then turn, as one,
And settle again on the bare branches.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem