Underneath the September clouds,
A dash of black is a murder of crows -
Above the river, amidst the crowds,
Upon the bridge. Yet no one knows.
Later in the day, the wide wood
would collapse, stealing a child.
Maybe two. Just as it should.
It’d leave a mark, black and wild.
And as lives go on, the murder
is slowly but surely, getting larger.
A boy. Struck by a girder.
A woman. Zapped by a charger.
So look not at the crows.
A murder was seen somewhere
in Russia. A man froze.
Now do not tread there.
On the eleventh, a murder of crows
was settled beside gloomy flowers,
In the wake of encroaching shadows,
Beneath the gaze of identical towers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem