He rests awhile in the wide
orchard where bright plum flowers rain.
He unrolls his pallet to sleep
inside the humming glade.
'Raiment, ' he writes in his
sleepy head, 'of leaves and bees.'
The old man puts the best plum in his
sleeve to bring home to his bitter wife,
writes,
'Why strive when nature is bounteous and
all ills can be made right with wet sweetness? '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
liked the ending part very much, , , a strong message you gave, , ,