Piles of sticks are strewn about the ground
Leaves gather inconsistently in old, rotten mounds
I see a white-chested bird with an orange beak
As I stroll pass, in song he begins to speak
The sun finally emerges to announce her hello
I unfold my umbrella to hide from her precious glow
And though life demands I return promptly to my seat
I thank Mother Nature for this sweet but brief retreat
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem