In depths of the hollow,
With caution I proceed.
I'm sure no one will follow,
As I walk from weed to weed.
This place is my own,
No soul will see me here.
I come to be alone,
Spring-Time every year.
What is it about this place,
That makes me feel alive..?
A wide and open space,
Away from busy hive...
I glide my hand along,
An old decrepit tree.
Humming out a song,
Just this tree and me...
I look it up and down,
As if my best of friend...
But soon I start to frown,
My friend has met his end.
I'm just about to leave,
When on my leg there comes a scratch.
What I see, I can't believe...
A tree as skinny as a match.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'I glide my hand along, An old decrepit tree. Humming out a song, Just this tree and me...' This is beautiful imagery. Love love love. The visual, and without saying the texture of the tree, the reader knows it's old and rough because you used 'decrepit' 'As I walk from weed to weed' -> Brilliant? I love that.