It is quite clear that winter is near
with yellow, auburn leaves on the stripped trees
and somehow my mind is quite clear
with the absence of butterflies and bees
that death is lurking ready to arrive
as naturally things do expire
as destiny at its time contrive
plans, to act as a consuming fire.
While my life is slowly turning to ember,
the twilight is drawing close
may it be that when you remember
our love that it do not lose:
the things that we hold obvious,
the clarity of that which is between us.
[Reference: Sonnet 73 “That time of year thou mayst me behold” by William Shakespeare.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem