A lot of flowers die without fruiting.
A lot fruits die without seeding.
A lot of seeds die without germinating.
Most of the seedlings become casualitis.
Every year, a tree thus incurs losses
In an attempt to leave a copy of it,
With preparedness to the waste of efforts.
Must we regret the waste we accumulate?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem