Green windfields on cows
and pigs a little with a weathleaf at my lips
Windmills and faeries around
They shatter gold and dust sweety sweets on the ground
where cold chilly morning has lost its own dawn
and evening crossed noon has had already spawn
We'd play at the hay
freezed with pumpkins and clay
of horses and copperbirds, metal decayed
and our clothes would be wounded
with the flesh they'd behaved
Colors of golden
sunburns explained
and not ever once layed a pencil of birds
in moist mouldry woods
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem