Looking into puddles, watching reflections shimmer in a morning breeze.
Seeing ripples of brown mud lying at the bottom of another puddle,
looking like it's moving, but in reality it's not.
Noticing branches on a tree, gnarled, brittle, dead.
Tender branches waving gently with a breeze, rocking them back and
forth with an innate rhythm of nature.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem