Rustling the ditch's floral skirt for strawberries:
Red and wild, elusive little rubies of delight,
Hidden as they hang, no bigger than a haw:
Vying with the velvet bells of purple foxgloves,
Filling the colour void and ringing out the days
Of violets fading in the shady wood unseen;
Overlooked by ferns in unfurled flags of green.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hell, I wanna make a pie.