The tree, sit down, so silent in the land,
Ceaselessly, settle there, except it is insolently uprooted.
Its twigs leisurely wave, with the soft wind,
Soon, fruits will be borne from the bus by tepid.
Soon, devils will appear and with them will bring,
The devils artillery, they will storm and fringe,
Cut the tree's branches, only to leave cringe;
The tree will bleed, and no way to stop the awful sledge.
While the slayer sings, tree smiles his last,
Leaving its globe behind, the good old past;
Oh man be kind! Let him stay with its light:
You may enjoy tender hour, but lose all flight.
You took his dreams and left no delight,
With compassion and dignity enjoy days bright.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem