A master's whistle commands,
On a hunt, to the hounds,
To chase and not fail,
The deer's blood scented trail
Scraped by a swift arrow,
Flying through the nest of a true sparrow
Tearing apart,
The hatchling, from its young spirit
The broken soul of its mother,
And bloodstain, on her quill feather
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem