The early morning breeze was on,
and our streams were on the run,
as bowls flew in and out of them,
yet their level stayed the same.
The sky was high and dry,
as her loads had all but dried.
So she stared at us,
as if we were loss.
Nature was so fresh and healthy
as if to night it was a baby
only fed by the night's stew-
the morning dew.
We though were blessed,
had not been so dressed,
with waiting plates and spoons,
therefore the day was just a ruin
as it ended our lovely night
which us rest it brought at last
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem