love is passing like the wind
that soon must go its way
the heat and rush of passion fade
like songs of yesterday
it is a province of the night
beneath an august moon
that yields to chilly autumn air
to sound a sadder tune
why love must end as seasons turn
and why the cold winds blow
are rhapsodies beyond my ken
that I may never know
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem