I sing of the lilies of the South;
that dwell in the wreathed hills' mouth;
and dance to the rhythm of the winds;
heading colonies of whites and greens.
With coloured petals that sway adrift;
sealing with beauty, the sunlight's rift;
their whispers tail the celestial whirr;
and quake the frail fountains of despair.
Their Winged-fragrance spread across the hills;
over the clouds and on eagles' bills;
beneath the rocks that form the Earth's base;
till they magically flame the sky's face.
The lilies retain the bliss of yore;
from tales of knighthood and whispering shores;
alive within them are scrolls of old;
upon which are the stories untold.
I sing of the lilies of the South;
of living rubies that hang about;
for in the meadows that shelter them;
dwells Mother Nature; in mortal realm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem