As a bird sang softly, I leaned out;
On leaning out on the ledge,
I heard a commotion fraught.
Dark, it ominously held danger.
It's then I heard her murderer.
As the curdling moon turned blood red
An owl began to hoot.
It was then I felt a compulsion.
'Not to give a hoot.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I felt a compulsion, good writing, I like it, thanks