The blowing wind
The crisp, cool air
Leaves of yellow and auburn
Dew of the morning light
Reflecting off the blades of grass
Wishing it were back again
Writing a story in colors
With the breeze as the quil
It writes stories of old
And makes room for the new
Watching it make the Earth turn
Waiting for it to come home
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
very nice! it reminds me of a piece i wrote titled October Sun