It's a usual thing that at one time
You stand up from your idleness, joy,
Feel yourself in a state of a shudder,
Like a branch of tree, got free of snow.
And with grief of a once wounded creature
You look there at window frozen,
Where the empty can's firing in features
Of a glow of sun downfalling.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem