I see the garden grow in parts,
Its wings are like chieftains of the earth;
One stays astonished to the mystery
Of life in its destructive forms.
Trees dry recklessly, winter is savage
And the summer ruins the waiting of life.
Soon a wretch has visited the plains
Of our living existence to comply with devils
Who stray from the straight path,
And encourage our garden paths to grow
Weeds in the offered passages of quality.
I see the earth and soil corrupted by death,
Roots lie again in heaven’s lurch,
The days of the judge of nature are not again.
I heard a flat man be witness to the death
Of a worm in this beautiful place called my garden,
Screeching accompanied the tools,
Death arrived to the careers and the pathway.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem