Frequently the wood mix pink -
More often not to wood on ground,
Hands color, of the root I, stumble on.
Winds frequent to, more the sail brought
up, figure head of Rosy sun, lifts split sea.
Earth bursts to round, undressed in deepest blue;
Ships brown oak one leg on rail, hardly long ago.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice wording :) good job