Will 't please ye I die at my dew,
when my petals, still fresh and new?
The sonorous call, I cry for thee
a warm embrace and smile rosy
as the mild breeze of the sea.
With mine confrere I lost all hail
my crouching, perching at thy tail,
to un-tape thy heart out of veil.
Then, I wake in mine 'hood, and ye
with a smile gentle - and never flee.
That ye say 'll not happen, will see.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem