The pine tree has grown scraggly: dry
denuded branches, oozing bark; and I
stand silently and listen to the thin wind cry.
In the grass I hear your rustling footsteps when you left
and feel again what I felt then: bereft
at how suddenly my tranquil life was cleft
in two. And hope flies up each time I hear
that rustling in the grass, wind in the tree:
Could it be your footsteps drawing near?
Or merely the sounds of you again
and again not coming back to me?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem