thundering on,
thundering,
thundering
on
the charge of spring
is begun;
riding over the plains
in a feast of newborn
and tender life;
vibrating and vibrating
with no stone
left unturned;
every goodness in creation
fermenting
into exuberance
and fresh, fresh
breath-taking,
greener than green
growth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem