World turning, twisting in piles of thoughts like leaves stacked for children to jump into them.
Reserving energy for playing in the midst of those colored piles of leaves, looking so pretty.
Nature having such colorful portraits of itself, as years of childhood are remembered on a photographic screen.
All past secrets taken to task, never holding anything of pure and peaceful promises, none of which ever survived.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem