As the Roses cry their winter,
And the petals are no more,
I was thinking how life passes,
How each day I miss you more.
Life is not an easy slumber,
Things do often go astray,
We are shaken by black thunder,
When our Love has gone away,
And we know the dying roses,
Won't be coming back in May.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A beautiful poetry. I like it very much!