That’s how the others call
the wounded crane: «Curlee, curlee!»
when autumn fields
are warm and crumbly…
And lying sick, I hear the call,
the rush of golden wings
from thick, low-lying cloudbanks
and from the tangled brush:

«It’s time to fly, it’s time to fly
above the fields and streams,
since you can’t sing again, it seems,
and raise your hand, now grown so weak,
to brush away the tears.»


Translation © Margo Shohl Rosen