On the tiny bank of the mudpool,
the rainwater penetrates inside,
the lawn looks like thrown pyre
nothing remaining outside
the quill of a bird tells a tale
that it was here before it died,
the hailstones murdered it
while the electric pole got it fried.
a hungry cat grabbed its corpse
before anyone spot it with treason,
the blood stains were washed by rain
the lawn looked as it was every season.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem