Way up north in these spiral hills
Where the wind whistled and shouted and screamed
When the pine tree bent and the oak tree thrashed
and the mournful call of the carrion crow
Lo! there flies the carrion crow
Crying to warn the world below
The old laboring farmer's gun does scorn
But the ink-black beast was human born
For it once was a sinner with a heart so bare
And now it flies through the winter air
Way up north where the kettle sighs
Where the dirt lays and the dust flies
When the wicker broom to the floor crashed
And perched up'n it was the carrion crow
Lo! there flies the carrion crow
Crying to the world below
For a strip of seeds is his daily meal
For all he finds, he takes with zeal
For it once was a thief with gold-laden hands
And now he labors through the lay of our lands
Way up north where the tombstones lie
And are daily cleaned by water from the sky
And the squash and the beans and corn grow scant
And so the crow begins its maddening rant
Lo! there flies the carrion crow
With a sinking cry, it falls low
And the smoke of the gun, with the blood that runs
And the bullet perched in the bird's breast is done
The mournful dying croak, the withering smoke
And closed is the eye of the carrion crow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A sublime start with a nice poem, Jordan. You may like to read my poem, Love And Lust. Thank you.