Entering the door
Me and the restless wasp meet
The season changes
In cutting my grass
The garden is tidier
But feeling sadness
Before the sunrise
The leaves are a whispering
The sky has secrets
Clouds predicting rain
A pigeon is discussing
A moment's merit
The morning sunlight
Passing by the wine glasses
Summons up an old mood
On the Buddleia
Butterflies are talkative
Ignore the sunlight
Purple Buddleia wind tossed
flying random two butterflies
Clapping their wings, land
Warm sunlight pushed aside
With a morning draft
An image writ with sunlight
On slats of the blind
Without any thought
Branches - leaves at a discourse
Concur with the breeze
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem