Where did the crows go?
Usually at least ten of them
perch on the withered branches,
and yet now none.
With disdain they looked upon our glazed faces
with an air as if they knew some secret we did not.
They woke us from idle sleep
seemingly despising our way of mucking-about.
If they are off for a conference
I suspect no good news for us
not when done so sneakily.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem