So she could repeat it over and over,
polish it, survive more happily,
I sent to a sister,
enduring the aftershocks
of the cherry-blossom quake in Q-shu,
the one about a Scots golfer
giving his wife his comb
instead of money to buy scanties,
when the wind picked up on the 18th
just before they went home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem