Memories mindful of the wakeful sun shining through the leaves of trees.
Tracing destinations from branch to branch, undecided as to it's hemisphere.
Wind walking on tiptoe through the trees, finding pathways strayed from reason.
Following dimensions of yesteryear, life begins fragrantly blossoming new ideas.
Reaching up - picking those that are ripe.
Looking down, toes scuffling through those of old, lying on the ground with age - over-ripened - yet, still containing the blessed age of wisdom.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem