It was my forty sixth year to heaven
and autumn was in the trees
and a slight breeze frizzled my hair
touching me with the first icy fingers
but the sky was clear and blue
and some wild doves cooed in the trees
and I would have been happier with summer,
but the flowers were still blooming
from shower after shower of rain
and I was alone again
with the winter
of our relationship setting in
which was a far greater chill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem