Dews on the leaf, glossy and smooth,
Arranged on the surface with great respect,
Independent as the rounding rodent moon,
Glitter here as the shining evening sun,
Millions of them on the parade with no earlier practice,
Early morning breeze and fragrance from the blooms,
The chirping from the birds and cracking of insects,
Every little heart smiles when touching the dews on the leaves,
Not the time ripen for them to know and grasp,
Those are the tears of the solitary night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delightful imagery... provides me a moment of melancholy reflection for something that I've perhaps misplaced in a memory somewhere. A wonderful pen... Thank you!