Four decades
passed
while countries
warred
and men went to the moon.
Yet love,
grown to
the sound of
Autumn leaves
prevailed.
So many died,
through tide
or time,
while
one red rose
sat,
patiently,
a portrait
bare of hope
that forty years
could not erase.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem