I look at a leaf and attach my hope
to it. That despite the year's end
it will remain. If the wind will quiver.
And trembling not notice. I look
at it from my place. Hasn't
its place always been? Similar
in itself? What keeps me
then. From that and for ever
turn back. Or just
turn myself
around.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem