Birds chirp to rid us of the waft of disease,
They have spines of an illustration,
Spines of the praise so lovely and strange.
Birds cross the divides of a holy day,
Rattling their beaks with flasks of heat,
Losing their goals as time beautifies the life.
Their wings outstretched, a crisp is found
Dallying in the mouth of a passenger of
Earth, the countries within, and the nations
Of clout.
Birds chirp ceaselessly, like fondling the
Youngsters of an age in ruins, knowing the life
Of an illustrated man, one of the flyers,
One of the same flyers that humanly inspire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem