I am
still thinking of that raven
in the valleys of Yush:
with the double rustle of its pair of black scissors
it cut a slanting curve
from the paper sky
and through the dry croaking of its throat
is said something
to the nearby peak
which the weary mountains
bewildered
under the full sun
repeated for long
in their rocky skulls.
Sometimes I ask myself
what a raven
with its decisive final presence
and its mournful persistent color
may have to say to the aged mountains
when at high noon
it glides over the baked ocher of a wheat-field
to soar atop a few aspens
which these tired sleepy hermits
repeat for long
together
at summer noontides.
وااااااااااااااااای عامو خيلی خارجی و غرب زده و دچار از خود بيگانگی فرهنگی شدی . آب توی آسياب دشمنان می ريزی با اين لحن نوشتنت
:دی
خوشال باشی.