To Saskatoon
With flakes and frost
Covering the roadsides
One can see leprosy
On a goat or a sheep
With bruises; rarely
Few hairs standing
Speak of history.
The cracks, here, there
Are winding to dead-end;
Once, they were the rivers.
No trace of the past
Thanks to the settlers!
Everything has sure changed
For the worse, not better.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem