Three years on, the leaves of spring still fall.
The river views of pearl dawns are gone;
poems of dust have drifted from the shore.
Watching from afar, the moon appears across
her window; a pendant light rises in her eyes.
Silk threads linger in her gaze; smoke spirals
past forsaken skies.
A distant mountain stands above the broken mirror;
frozen trails reach beyond repose.
The night glows in shades of black; a messenger
is summoned through the rain.
The valley knows the farewells of the winding path;
damp eaves are melting in their pride.
When the edge of light is tattered, nothing moves
beyond the clouds of fortune.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
you are a skilled poet i can see here.keep up the good work man