It was very safe but an unlikely place:
pretty warm and temperate like an incubator.
The little sparrow, a non-conformist,
went off track with an unconventional air,
veered away from her flight all curious,
and lighted on that strange barrel-like shape
with a broad, round, dark inviting hole in the front.
Taking all precautions, the little audacious bird
inched close and peered inside. A strong pungent smell,
that could comfortably keep her from the biting cold,
went straight to her tiny brains. Before the sundown,
she chirruped in glee and made many a trip in the trees
to make a straw-house of her own in that tunnel of a place.
It was a bloody fierce day in the battlefield:
cannons went mad on both sides of the divide;
anger and fire flew about spelling out the name of death;
the big Post Office was busy sorting out the mail.
Among the heavy toll of mortals who had paid their due,
no one could track a tiny bird, and no one knew.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem