As woods surrender to the frost,
there is a tree that won't let go.
The live oak tightly holds its crown;
it knows a wish, men wish to know.
And yet this false and lasting green
is costume and a bold deceit.
Eternal life is quaint disguise,
audacious in its vain conceit.
Although the live oak clings to it,
I know its life comes to an end.
And one by one its acorns fall;
its leaves are scattered by the wind.
Thus men are so like evergreens,
defiant till a final spring.
But seasons or the woodsman's axe,
at last must garner everything.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem