A bird lies deep in the depths of the rye
Among its tall grass, away from the eye,
Where the morn dew clinging to a leaf
Gazed down upon it, in disbelief.
Have they returned to the fields once more
To live their life as they did before?
Before they heard the dreaded sound
Of progress coming like a hound,
From tractor and baler now enshrined
As progress in the farmer's mind.
With a sound that shivered the spine
And one that would ultimately consign
This bird to a spot it wont comprehend
A spot where unfamiliar forces blend.
No more the sound of a snorting horse
Or others familiar to keep it on course
Like blades of grass, that drop and writhe
On the ground from a swinging scythe.
And chatter from workers in the field
As it lay, and listened, quiet and concealed,
Then, the dew still clinging in disbelief
Knowing that its life is brief,
Heard with joy, a rasping sound
Before it dropped to the ground
Of a corncrake calling loud
With boldness, head unbowed,
Pointing upward to the sky
Calling out to passers by.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem