The wind stirs an uprising
to applause of leaves.
The rabble, roused,
throws sticks and stones.
Depression in the Forties
stretching south
to the homeland.
A cold front bares its teeth.
Tiles will be flung.
The overhanging branch,
ominous, waits.
Another roar:
we are under siege.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A gteat poem really liked it. A great write. May i invite you to read my new poem called, Rise Of The Crow.