The black crow perched on the boughs
Crowing,
Crowing and speaking many a tongue of its own,
Very often simply,
But sometimes in a strange tuning of its own,
Repeatedly,
The harshness is gone
As its tonal impact casting an impact,
It is twisting and turning the jazz
Into the blues
With a change in throat,
Change in voice
And is repeatedly cawing
As with a cliché,
The voice appearing to be a little bit musical,
Perhaps hinting it,
Suggesting so
The arrival of a guest
Who in turn may be wanted or unwanted,
Whose arrival awaited eagerly
Or seen with a frown.
The black crow cawing, cawing repeatedly,
Perhaps some guest is coming,
There lies the possibility
Of an arrival,
Which the bird telling of
Through its crowing,
A guest is about to come to
And his arrival await you,
Lo, he is seen there,
With a cloth bundle,
Embarking upon the bank of the river
And seen from the hamlet homes,
The traditional guest is coming
While on the other hand ha may be a city man
With an attaché into the hands of his,
Taking off his leather shoes
To cross over the dusty ways
And the sands to cover up!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem