Fingers dance on mountain crests,
Then through the valley pass,
Glide in the silky meadow,
On to the hill's sweet grass.
Parting the waves of clover,
Finding that flower single,
A shy bud they gently grasp,
And tenderly stroke to tingle.
Delicious, delightful, rapture,
This journey with no strife,
Brought to a climatic ending,
Fingers splash in the well of life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem