Fields around — of shiny dazzling metals.
Trees — in icy rock, all climbing higher.
Snows have no more room to drop their petals,
Sun walks in the sky in fur of fire.
With his diamond brush upon my pate
Artist Frost paints as on window pane
Snowy legends of his color palette,
Signed in flight of dove, in sky a strain.
Sun sets inside me. Ended her route.
Just her flaming fur alone arose
On a stretching branch. And I — a mute —
Would put on the fur before it goes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem