An old path goes along
Near wild gardens and lonesome walls.
Thousand-year-old yews shudder
In the rising falling chant of the wind.
The moths dance as if they would die soon,
My glance drinks weeping the shadows and lights.
Far away women's faces float
Ghostly painted in the blue.
A smile trembles in the sunshine,
Meanwhile I slowly stride on;
Unending love gives escort.
Quietly the hard rock greens.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem