Quietly,
in the silence,
of the cold late night,
I see trees almost bare,
dying leaves,
still hanging on,
despite,
the lateness,
of the autumn's fall,
I wonder why,
they still cling,
desperation maybe,
possibly familiarity,
likely not,
maybe in nature's way,
they are simply,
afraid to rot.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem