Seasons pass by while I still.
It is neither the zephyr, blowing shrill,
That gives me the thrill.
Nor the coldness of a winter chill,
Which makes me ill.
It is the time; with a relentless will,
That breezes through my window sill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The poems sounds good, but notes here clear more a picture about two hearts..it is a beautiful poem indeed_Soul