When people are chilled to the marrow,
they rush to trains and trams in a row.
All the animals have furs
to jeer at the climatic curse.
Strange sounds makes the foreseeing black crow.
To make woollen wares God has given man the brain.
Given the furs to others to save them from the strain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem