My daughter took her very first
as my lover took her last.
The sorrow of the blooms of spring
is they come and go so fast.
I took the only thing she wore
and I put it in its case.
A flower blooms and dies once more
in this tomb it has its place.
For soon enough a girl will bloom
and she'll open it with care.
To find my flower laid to rest
with her treasured gift still there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem