The air stands hushed, as if it holds its breath,
No leaf dares speak upon the waiting tree;
The sky lies pale, rehearsing scenes of wrath,
Yet wears a calm that feels like mockery.
Birdsong retreats into a brittle hush,
The earth grows tense beneath the heavy sky;
In this deep pause where silence gathers rush,
The storm is born before the first cry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem