The sun rose—
stretching her rays
with ghostly fingers reaching
through trees
trying to touch
things it could not see.
Patience
is her virtue
as time revolves the world
with its simple possessions.
Her fingers now touch warmly—
linger on the exposed
she filtrates
layer, by layer, below.
And nature
responses
with palpable growth
filling voids past the obvious.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A nice picture you paint of the rising sun. Well done, Tango.