While picking a rose
you are for moments astonished
in wonder over the colour,
the beauty and the soft fragrance
but a small thorn catches you,
leaves a small dot of blood at your wrist
and you cut off some more roses
that you do arrange
and push into a vase in the front room
and while you are caught thought-struck
you look lovely, you do look wonderful.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem