My bitter tears curse down my face
To lap at the edges of my despair
I hold that which must be freed
And cannot capture that which is mine
Why does the forest pine for the maidens fair
That come and pick the merry blooms
That creep almost out of reach?
They long to hear the cries of the morning bird
Harking his tale of woe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem