I remember when the lilacs bloomed for Easter,
In a colder climate than this.
But now as they bloom, not for Easter,
All I can feel is summer's approaching hiss.
The air on this day is charged,
With a storm from summer's loins.
And the trickle of spring is barged,
Out by the force of summer's urge to rejoin the endless wheel,
While the next death is only held by Autumn's seal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem