In the meadow where love blooms
ripe yellow leaves sprout out.
No glittering in the sun.
No dancing in the wind.
Gazing at the constrain
Time and age drain.
Any more not sure,
if a meadow or mirage.
Perhaps the telescope’s broken,
and the ship’s swaying in the sea.
Should step down from the look out
and throw off the bowlines.
Sail astray the equator
in quest of a telescope
or perhaps a meadow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem