A noose hung like gallows on a crooked tree,
Encrusted with smite a crow did see,
A black cloak walked a tempetuous mile,
Waivering and lonely he felt beguiled,
Each step closer to fates wicked hand,
His life fell through like grains of sand,
As he reached out to that branch of coal,
He could hear the shrills of those lost poor souls,
Forever to glide through eternity,
Around that noose of the crooked tree
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem