When I write you, I mostly dream.
I do not live, like others do.
Ah! My dear November
how many dreams of mine
are wingless because of you,
I can't even count that far.
Months ago,
you wanted me to love you
and I did.
Now you've changed,
and you don't want me to love you,
but I can't do that anymore.
Why do you belive that I'm like a flower
that you can throw when it whiters,
when it's in your heart, the love that whitered?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem