The crows are fighting
Amongst themselves
Over who gets to caw
For the dominant squaw
A murder of crows
Walking free
Don't you know
The heretic crows
Will soon proclaim
My prophetic doom
Is preordained
As if dying were
The only matter
The hereafter is waiting
Just over there
As usual, I've got
Nothing to wear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem