when he was a child
he made a fan out of those
big leaves
gathered flowers for
mother
and he carried these options
when he became a man
ladies love him
but he never loved anyone
he had become hopelessly
romantic
loving art, loving the world
but never offered himself
and so when he died
no lady has ever shed a tear
flowers wilted
leaves dried, cracked and
turn to bits and pieces
too fine enough to be blown
by all the winds away
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem