The gardener bent toward knotted soil
on which dew found blood red and yellow blush;
and which, by line and hand furrowed,
had called to all with vain delight.
The craft of tender, each bulb upright
as considered placement made;
once preening on river's bank
now condemned to havoc and shard.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem