They ran through the flowers, they say,
They played all the hours away,
They sang all the time of the day,
They picked at the Summer’s display.
They came from the sky, it’s said,
Upon wispy paths of golden thread,
They smiled a away, but instead,
In the coldest days of winter, they seem dead.
End.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem