It is the time of harvest of golden colour
There is stain of your surface
The meadow looks like desert
A feeling of dreary loneliness.
At present I am feeling hungry
A cracked dish at my hand
Before taking crops
The cellar consumed
They create a riot for crops
Redden with blood, you endure
They could not bother.
You,
Like an obedient girl
Take the blood in your arms
And fill every year golden harvest in the cellar.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem