In twilight
the sickle moon,
waits for the dark.
What a kill.
Roses in bloom
watch haying.
Halix of life
uncoils, to warm
the man.
The butterflies
shiver in sun.
Fine weather.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Water is the standard by which we measure how much a rigid stick can't conform. Apply force to the apple. Ultimately the impurities become what is sought during the down times between rush hours. The oil pan is vulnerable to rocks in the road bed.