My bungalow has many stories, but most of them are blue,
My garden has a secret and I'm guarding it from you.
Walk up the stairs and stare out the back window;
I will be hiding in the tall grass.
Indoors, the war claims another life.
He is a solar panel. She is a windmill.
My sun has now set, and his son is dead.
A tornado is coming and the bungalow is a little more red.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem