The trees now are turning so vaired are the shades.
Cool and clear the night soon ice will choke the glades.
Sad and mornful song in the distance cries a loon.
While on the shadowed horizon hangs the harvest moon.
Cloked by a stary blanket no image can contain.
As the north breeze whispers a lonely sad refrain.
The ending of a cycle its loop is almost closed
All of natures mysteries shall never be exposed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem