Leaves from his branches are falling off:
A human tree in wintertime,
Said to be deciduous.
Time to revert to an inner core,
Source of his sprouting long ago.
There is no book to show him how.
His book collection concerns
Cherished buds and others' flowers...
That flourished once in sun or showers.
As to be young was to be lost,
And not much different being old,
Faith grew in purpose, being tossed.
Settled as an old tree trunk,
To return as seed where he was born:
He believes he's from a garden.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem