Rivets and waves; sway, sway, sway.
Bough of the poplar trees create shade.
Awoken by the sun and cradled to sleep by wind.
Perpetual fresh air on a mid-summer day.
Fog of the night then twinkle of day; the lake comes out to play.
Laughter regarding ideas gone rogue.
A multitude of stories proceed mid-summer day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem