the smell of dry leaves
swept by your broom
after a rain takes you back
to an old home.
and you remember how
happy you were once as
a child with your mother
she was sweeping the yard
and you help her with all
the dried leaves, creating a
heap, and burning them,
and seeing the smoke rising
to the sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem