For Smooth Green Grass
and Multiflorous Parrott
the sun would shine
extravagant.
Trees and air
might have a common thrill
for nothing that atmosphere
is obliged to feel.
Modesty would be wind's child,
sands gentler than just mild,
and they will born some dust
unspectacularly, in season: iron thrust.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem