In spring things dance, In fall all dies.
Just as the sun shal set, and the moon will rise.
Each Second of the death of grace, while the leaves keep steady pace,
Each pedal that comes cold and limb, each firefly that's light goes dim
Each drop of water, so cold it bites.
Each cold breeze in fall and winter nights.
Truly the most graceful of deaths, is the living, that does not live.
The ones that wisper to your soul.
The ones that spread on the old lamp pole.
The green and pink and whites of grace,
Beautifully, keep perfect pace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This may not be the best of your poems, but this certainly is a good one.