Full fields of flowers, row on row,
stretch the length of the river's spine.
Two winged birds, a sparrow and crow,
perch in panes above the tree line.
Sparrow summons spring in her song,
but she is scared to spread her wings.
Crow is winter trudging along.
She is lonely and never sings.
Sparrow could fly if unafraid,
but she stands at the water's edge.
Crow has flown, with her wings well splayed,
her dreams the dust of withered sedge.
Sparrow has many miles to go,
plenty of time for flit and fun.
Crow has tired from travelling so.
She has lived her days in the sun.
Sparrow and crow invoke the gods,
touching heaven's most holy sky;
and both will rise against the odds
as wispy strands of clouds pass by.
The river's tongue slips through the sound.
The earth echoes as ages flow.
How brief the bell of life is found,
a sprig of life in winter snow.
Sparrow dreams of an open door,
but the door is within her heart.
Crow has dreamed the same dream before
but was grounded before the start.
The mind itself cannot assuage
sighted eyes that refuse to see,
that hold you in an open cage
where freedom is no longer free.
Sparrow will have the chance to grow,
to find flight in her airy wings,
or be embittered as the crow
who is lonely and never sings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem