Like a yellow leaf
Shun by, even the autumn sun
O I am done
O I am done
I can start counting my feeble days
When the trembling?
When the cold?
When the remembering?
I am cold.
In the night I look for cover
thinking this is my last; a place, some foods, a dress I am wearing or maybe a dance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem