Walking down an autumn road, filled with the aftereffects of
a rainstorm, kicking at wet leaves lying upon the ground.
Searching the skies for questioned replies - hearing only
the quiet death of spring.
Houses in the distance huddled closely for the coming winter,
trying to keep warm in the cold emptiness of night.
White clouds woven together creating a woolen blanket,
covering the earth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem