A mackerel sky, a blood-orange sun,
and leaves drooping from the black limbs of oaks;
and thieving magpies, hell-mirroring rooks,
behind an old woman’s whispers and sighs—
sooty bricks with barbs around her heart
as she limps by, and I stop to jot it down.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem