Scene
Willows’ hairs are down
Their neighbors, clowns
Dressed in colors
Red, blue, brown
Some wearing crowns
He lies on ground
His elbow angled
His hand turned to fist
To sky, knuckles
Head lay on the hand
Looking down as birds
Searching for the worm
Hundreds blades
In deserts, camels
Making caravans
Standing grass
Dew drops hanging
Working as prisms
The odor of wet
And the rotten leaves
Mixed with dead grass
He turns to his back
Soaked, breathes breeze
In early morning
Of great autumn
Waiting for the sun
That will shine bright
Scenes are marvelous
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem