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The fallen leaves are weeping from sadness
A poet -fall is writing, with noises rattling.
Its last fragrance the perfume sprinkles,
The autumn flushes like the sun setting.
The proud trees, obedient, protrude
Their hands to the mirage with a hope
On the branches the letters are torn
Those are left by the wind, dope.
On the roof the rain is drum-drumming,
The fall is writing poems, gardens are rattling.
The fall's poem is as heavy as the sin,
Into the soul the razor keeps stinging.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem