Blissfully unaware,
I breath your last care.
Coming it sighs to me.
Willowy green leaves of which I
bleed, the tree top is bent.
Graceful breaze to stir my heavy chest
of tresses are yours.
Hold it not to high up,
for I may loose my way climbing down.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
If lost, follow the wind's song. Dorothy