Artistic miracle
Though grey come clouds
Act as the best brush; seasonal
Coloured, have, the trees in the falls
They draw half-dead leaves on grounds
Then behave like hoses, splash, wash, flush
Make movies, of fear and horror, thunders’ lights
They absorb rays of sun in daytimes, East-West-wise
After rain, when comes sun they make sword, of rainbow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem