Hear the decaying bird,
Hear it wallow.
Hear it praise the lord, it’s author
That is, oh, so shallow.
Not a single false note, not a care in
The little bird’s world.
“I am, indeed, dying, ” the little one
Takes its last breath. “I don’t see
What’s so strange about going there.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem