Rolling hills of grass supporting trees in their lives of
beauty.
Covering their fragile roots with blankets only they can
possess, taking care that no frost can get to them in
the icy coldness of a winter's night.
Delicately swaying with gentle wisps of wind, life bows
down before Him in it's eternal glory.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem