The winter is humming something:
Is it for nothing?
Does she say that spring will never
Do the summer hills put on a bark
With withered grass?
Do they dream that when the rains come,
They bring sheer joy?
Is the autumn or the glow of transition:
A memory slip?
Will everything at the end turn into
The corpse of a late winter?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem