Autumnal fall when the leaves go crashing to the group swirling in the air in constant circles, tumbling, rolling, gliding to the ground. Rolling in piles, scattered across the forest, the leaves turning into compost, decaying away into the ground. Until next autumn we won't see this beauty of nature again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Like this a lot. Autumn is my favorite season. Having grown up and still residing in New England, I could never live without this time of year. The colors of the leaves, the sound of them crunching underfoot. The smell of them as they soak into the ground. Your poem brings them all to my senses. Nice job.