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Crow
Green grass spreads while purple flowers catch sight
Hills ascend, as leafless trees ignite
The skies scream of joy and the sun of delight
But what is it to a crow that only sees black and white?
Old crow, wise crow, stands still on a tree
The highest branch of all, naked, without leaves
It hears the other birds cry out their famous pleas
But what is it to a crow that denies all he sees?
Orange, red, and yellow tones, glow upon the lake
I twig falls atop the water as the image soon brakes
Yet the afternoon sun allows the reflection to wake
But what is it to a crow that claims it all as fake?
What is it to a crow that covers thoughts with feather masks?
What is it to a crow that's known to curse the warmth of bask?
What is it to a crow whose still unknown its living task?
What is it to a crow, all of which I speak I clearly ask?
