What wind cannot respect a dying leaf
Whose gentle whisp goes on a raging spree
And rips the fading foliage from a tree
Then tears away without a faint remorse
Nor stops to mourn with stricken bough
Nor hears the barren pledge a solemn vow
To save next autumn's golden child,
But slashes on to raid another's arm
And set another writhing in alarm
What wind cannot respect a dying leaf
Whose presence only serves a bitter grief.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem