The garden is a living cell.
A Monet' of colour
and a still reflection,
Its life is onward moving.
But still, like the sun,
forever in dusk or dawn:
A theatre of hearts
beating as one!
And an applause of petals
Scented; in love.
The garden is a river.
A place of worship
a place to espy
a good time to die.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful, enjoyed reading, thank you.