I sense there is a coming storm
that almost shows the mystery
of universals that transform
what has been to what must be
the still pink morning bloom
rose not so many hours ago
too beautiful to mark the doom
afternoon would start to show
from the south the gray descends
streaks of fire and rain and wind
and I would wish to make amends
for I like each of us have sinned
at last the sun ignites the west
and puts all storm regret to rest
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This too! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !