Yunna Morits
Crow
A crow came to our house one time
to our window for its pittance.
Crown, alas, does not rhyme
With Crow, His Sombre Indigence.
This shininess and braggadocio,
Awful voice and effigy,
Is nothing but a hungry crowdom,
which has survived three centuries.
Three hundred years to fight for food,
Three hundred years to snatch and grab –
What can one do but caw, my friends,
and out of boredom go quite mad!
Perhaps the very crow that does
its thieving from your board,
knew Sir Isaac Newton once
when it was a fledgling bird.
But it does not earn its keep
By granting sundry interviews –
The crow knows what is good for it,
as it makes huge eyes at you!
Translated by Daniel Weissbort
Page(s) 134
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