Storm winged, the magpie snow clipped the hawthorn,
embracing the fat full meadow, spring's jester has
returned to annexe winter from the earth.
A shock of coal, taunting the sun, tailing his season in his
shiny priest suit, worn for ceremony and sin.
Tendrils of winter are pulled and frayed by this flapping clown.
This vagabond of the skies who rattles the air
with his machine gun call and quarters the meadows
with blooded talons.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem