Winter's tree, of leaf and bird,
of mystery stripped
silent and spare
where living glade
with leafy trunk and fragrant limb
once hid mockingbirds
as they played
through drowsy summer's
longest day.
But now in winter's brittle chill
all is silent, all is still
as death works out
his hollow will.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem