In the distance, shadows stretch,
mountains hold the fading light,
whispers of wind carry tales,
of moments passed, forgotten dreams.
A lone tree stands, weathered,
its branches reaching for the sky,
roots deep in silent earth,
bearing witness to the seasons.
Clouds drift lazily,
painting the horizon with hues,
while the sun sinks slowly,
a canvas of orange and gold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem