Shoulders,
Bare a wisp of hair.
Silken hangs,
Down across her face.
Sheltered from the wind,
Inside the chamber of her heart.
There is an echo still,
Of lovely music I can hear.
As I gather up the dew,
And morning new has come.
Inside a golden cup,
The wine is cool and warm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem