Crow

It is pure black, without a trace of impurity

Look, at the way it crouches on the aspen tree

How like a concentrated mass of blackness

In its simple cry

A "croak" without content, because there is no content

It's mesmerizing because there is no content

Every time I see a crow in the city, I think of the crows in the countryside

The old folks say its call is unlucky

They told us to pooh-pooh it three times to resolve disasters. Until now

When I hear the crow's cry, I will panic

But I crave this familiar panic more and more

Some winter days, a few crows scattered on the bare aspen trees

and the shiny straw beneath the aspens

My grandfather, who believed in astrology and divination, and my father

believed that God lived on the roof and my mother

used to bring back old women from the village who had nowhere to go

Once brought back a wounded egret from a frozen vegetable garden

My stubborn trust, the education of memory

No less than all the education I had received

The blackness of a crow is honest, the blackness of a raven

Is clean

A crow's blackness, never wavering in the blackness