Early morning.
The bitter wind upsets the air.
Creeping into the distant sky,
A golden guide of light.
A black mass hangs intrudingly,
Shifting sluggishly across the pale canvas.
Falling into view, a solitary swirl of white
Wavers about, as if riding on a resigned sigh.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem