What have I to think
about the leaves, which perish in autumn,
when you're going alone
with a small number of hope in the pocket?
What have I to think
about the sun, which sets the evening,
when you're walking
in the street of the past days?
There're following you the sounds of the violins,
there're following you the smells of the summer,
there're following you the children's dreams...
What have I to think
about you being in love so foolish?
What have I to think
about myself, when you're picking up jasmine?
What have I to think
about the flowers, which awake with a song,
when you're playing, singing,
when you're with me - not with me?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem