The clouds are tinged solid,
Red, pink and blue mingle,
Cool air, crisps in my lungs,
Mist stings my eyes;
Even Dandelions may be beautiful,
In their own way, special,
Little suns clad in green,
Their leaves dragon toothed.
But my breath catches, and so I fall,
I come to rest in the supple grass.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem