Autumn is our conscience.
Vast expanse of blue sky nurse it,
white clouds occasionally cover it up,
cool air quickly cleans the blockade.
Autumn is short lived.
It wears peaceful colors.
Monk like contemplation wraps it up
by logic and faith.
Autumn is a buffer between shower and snow,
like the want and end.
25th Oct.2016
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem