Looked up to the face of a tree,
orderly the branches are waving free;
it is bark but yet alive,
peacefully the winds begin to arrive
in the hollow weeds it begins to chat.
Removing the bleeding of the sap
slowly continues to ooze,
ignoring howling whispers of seduce.
The wind...
nature is his muse...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem