Leaves do not take a hint
That they enchant trees no more-if they ever did.
Instead, trees yawn in ennui
To their final, plaintive, flare
Of gold like suns, of twilight lit plums
And let them waste bloodless and sere.
Away, away, away with them wind!
Sound them to a scratchy cackle
In concert praise of human's sense
To name them for their absence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem