It’s autumn and while leaves drift down
from the big old pepper tree
you sit on a bench in our garden
with a distant look on your face
while you are far beyond lovely
in a loose white robe,
are swathed in the bronze light of the setting sun
while a flock of sparrows and weavers
peck at the crumbs that you have scattered
from a piece of white bread
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem