September's mighty winds rise against me,
borne by blackened clouds godless as the deep,
the horn of winter blows impatiently
stealing from the water the summer's heat.
Hurricane's decry as the ocean's weep
and I am in the forefront of their wails,
rank and accomplishment, who do they please;
the tributes to love grow tired and weak,
eyes change and promises lost in the gales
blown by September winds
past my wizened old sails.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem