September. apples are falling out of basket.
and the pears are lightly hard,
but they are seen.
you are bustling about nimbly between trees...
in a minute, you are sweeping my hair aside,
with fingers, and
are holding my face into hands, and looking me
in the eyes, you are saying, that you are
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem