Hazily the fog is streaming.
The streets are running
That trolley, the car
And to where all of the wheels are running
With being no port to anchor
With the many pathetic persons were being loading,
The street is swamped by the fog,
If I try to stand with a red postbox which is the corner
of the street, in all of the things are running
The glimmering street lamps is not going
Out about which is, then what is the symbol?
My beloved Park
Where are you now?
When the fog continuously is running,
‘In the new morning let's meet again.'
Writing a letter and dropped it into the mailbox,
And waited all night long
For a mailman in the uniform with a golden insignia and buttons
Who would appear like a giant:
A delightful visit in the morning.
This night, continuously the mist is streaming.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem