The wind shall wear his April cloak.
So all the flowers will laugh and poke-
to see his dancing sprig of spring,
on a butterfly's wing.
Beneath his feet, trees bow, newly green.
Little clouds whiten on the glowing sheen.
For all the world is healthier in an April wind.
Or so the chirping nestling sparrows sing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem