Where the wind mills turn,
black birds go by,
Grey clouds poof,
in the limitless sky.
Green valleys: thick and tall,
cool mist from morning fog,
quick rapids ever so fierce,
diamond on a landmine, ready to burst.
Silky smooth grass,
grazing our skins,
her touch so tender,
my breath taken by the wind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem