I could be one of things that love forgot,
My love seems not to think of me at all,
It's Summer now, but not a call I've got,
She got in touch, the latest was last Fall;
Migrating storks seem now to homeward fly,
Now homeward to the nest they propped last year,
But in our rooftop none came stopping by,
Like love that came, not stopping even near;
She need not come in person, that is true,
But only true as wistfulness permits,
For how could I, in memory pursue,
A memory that not in true life fits?
......We could find solace in remembered joys,
......For harsher thoughts, forgetfulness destroys.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
perfect sonnet just go out of it