Alone, the friend has music,
So much strength is in this butterfly;
The beach of an angel is ready for basking in,
Then rain shall sound after the summer on it,
And loss is the brother of the friendly man,
I ask him to be in solitude, and be sorry
For the sound of rushing rain, the mother of storms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem