- Flóra Bátori
A crow is flying on the sky,
the wind is rocking the branches,
down, the cornfield opens his eyes,
in crow's toe: a rosemary is,
which he stole from Rosemary's hand;
flying he glance backwards,
he build it in his tiny nest,
... he laughs: the world is changeable.
It's to late to catch rosemary,
the time is over and I'm glad,
the sky is so black already,
Why did you let, would it be ended?
Maybe, you are the real crow,
please, let me go alone.
poro carbón
