The Autumn suburb,
Licked by moon light, laments now
For it’s rural roots.
Our houses are still,
Unbending against the breeze
An oak groans, and leans.
The Autumn suburb
Is littered with yellow shards
Of once skipping leaves
Our houses are still
Unbending against the breeze
And oak groans, and leans.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem