A lethargic crow sculls its way
through a numbing broth of sky.
The magpie bobs on a springboard branch
ignorant of my superstition.
Villagers stamp at the freezing stop,
fretful for the creeping bus.
Through the smell of new mown grass
and imminent rain, I cycle slowly home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem