as pigeons scuff the milky sky
and magpies mock the crows' scrawl
there at their allotted spots
knees raised high
backs against the wall
they wait to be transported
to the scree-slopes of it all
and from the decks of coasters
over the hills
and with elbows astride
the window-sills of silvery jets
the singing of songs
they would never wish to hear
even if the screaming stops
and the siren sounds
the 'all-clear'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem