Looking up into a tree, it's branches looking deadened,
scratching these eyes with their forlorn presence.
Taking away, thinking of their beauty, once so much
appreciated, now hanging in the atmosphere, being seen
for what they now are.
To mind, they are still pretty in their deadened
captivity, touching interior intellect, reminding of
the same facts that will one day touch this being with
death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem