When the windOw
Takes the picture Of the garden,
The cOlOrful plate,
On the maple table,
Fills the hOllOw whiteness.
Listening tO the silence Of snOw,
What was the smell Of winter?
My penbrush
Walking blue and yellOw,
White winds blOwing,
The sOund Of trees thinking
HOw's the smile Of the snOwman?
A little sled
Filled with red heads
Standing still On tOp Of the hill
Gingering the hill by Orange whOOps
HOw dO their faces lOOk?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem