For it is said love is like the blossom of spring,
it carries a voice like a harbenger on a wing,
dual cusps on a mountain so tall,
arise from the depths and show them all.
Effervescently it flows through the veins of the weak,
irremovable pleasure in the minds of the meak,
quick to the step of a quotation of joy,
meandering rhythms on a feeling of coy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem