Storybook fables give gold a rich luster
that loses its brilliance with closer inspection.
Colors of leaves in autumn’s bright showcase
can make my heart race and fill me with wonder.
But the gold doesn’t last,
(like the red and the yellow)
and all become compost that cries for attention,
a layer of brown on
my once perfect lawn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem