Like the end of life that comes with old age,
Autumn stripped
turns most of the trees into skeletons,
in cold nipped
days are windswept, the sun without its glare,
we are gripped
by the first spells of winter that is coming,
as if death is already in homing.
[Reference: Immortal Autumn by Archibald MacLeish.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem