Today it is the turn of the crows.
Driven in by an onshore gale,
They soar and tumble their way
Up the valley, calling as they come.
Tilt of a finger-fringed wing
And away on a slant glide
Halfway across the valley they go.
Dark flying scraps, they play on the wind,
Ride the wild sea's breath.
A dip and a turn to face the blow
And the strong beat of those dark wings
Sends them climbing high
Over the rooftops and the wildflower meadow.
Is it foolish, I wonder,
To think that the crows are happy,
Find joy in a fresh, bright day?
Perhaps if I can have another turn,
Next time, can I be a crow?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem