I stroll my walk, over the barron hills i go,
to find a little stream....I have become to know.
I sit upon the rocks, of her wild water flow,
where the greenist of moss, does so succulently grow.
Trees cross these banks, to her edges they bow,
Ivy filled trunks, so elegantly in tow.
Grass and heather, gathered on ground of low,
in pools of water, I watch little boatmen row.
Life of these waters, natures magnificence... all on show,
as down the valley, her wild waters do go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem