I have stowed away my coffee spoons;
marching time engulfs my gloom.
Once I was the dandelion,
sun soft petals look so fine,
receptacle for wandering bees,
plucked by children with skinned knees,
fastened and linked to form a wreath.
A little joy at once bequeathed
before the wind scattered the seed
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem