All which the wood wills to conceal,
Beneath her lush lavender veil,
Has lifted my shallow soul above,
A world of things-as-they appear.
Within each placid apparatus,
(Beyond the actor; or the actress) ,
Blighted hands work to repair,
Hosts of agonizing matters.
Rivers, mountains, valleys tainted,
The forest of our human nature-
Is defiled when no one considers,
A hearts numerous tender acres.
For each soul is a woodland,
Fragile, dark and deep,
Filled with living feelings,
Endangered by humanities-
Insensitivity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem