When we stroll out in the Spring,
through vales fulfilled with daffodils,
wooded dells of pale bluebells,
the air alive with lovely smells,
and when in our dancing
we’re lulled by Persephone’s scents
of delightful fragrance,
let’s be certain of one thing:
The two foot of sooty-black snow
fouling the Himalayan height
to melt and flood valleys below,
was blown from the war for Kuwait.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem