Trees wave wildly
begging the flotilla of fast moving
black clouds for mercy. Lightning bolts,
sceptres of God, send sheet after sheet
of rain in downpour. As the storm subsides,
the sound of dripping peace is counterpoint
to the birds chirping in relief. Pale white
mist blankets cover the crevices of the hills
in anealing grace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem