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The black crows with plumage black,
That the autumn wind drove away,
Returned from their long journey,
Caw in the spring sky.
The thickets, the sullen bushes
Await their joyous birds:
But, instead of the gay virtuosos,
The crows arrive first.
To charm the woods that are bored,
These dilettantes without rival,
Tonight, through snow and rain,
Will give a grand festival.
The dreamers, whose ecstasy is brief,
Await flights of golden birds;
But, instead of the birds of dream,
The somber condor arrives.
March weeps before smiling on us.
Hail falls in midsummer.
Man, born for mourning, sighs
And weeps before he has sung.
Charles-Nérée Beauchemin
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-the-crows-charles-neree-beauchemin/