I will forget you, presently.
As leaves of this ailanthus tree, now green,
turn yellow, fall, and are covered with snow,
so memories of you will fade.
But years from now, on a sidewalk in Oslo,
a thirty-ish woman, your distant cousin,
will smile at me as we pass,
and all those feelings, all your beauty's joyous ache,
will come flooding back,
as though it were only yesterday.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem