A crow screams at me from the eave of the garage roof.
I wonder, does he carry the soul of the man that I slew?
The last quarter-moon of summer, a barn owl circles
the nude hay field, a mouse hides among broken stalks.
Summer stumbles to an end, an anxiousness blankets
the valley fields. The end is near. The wind is changing.
When the crow leaves, I will fly with him, the breeze in my face,
the treetops at my feet, the fields a blurry carpet far below.
A sort of despondency to this. In fact it become overwhelmingly moving by the third couplet. I was very taken with this piece. The lovely use of language is where the impact lies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Soulful and a little sad, will the summer return? Will the Crow? Will you? ?