wise as maybe thou planted
yet! emptied for
other to grow, the ice in the making the
color of its dye
nothing has ever touch
the risen blooms
of the petal, for even the butterfly
smooth
the ground to its fully grown beautiful
flower
look as its grow, the hyacinth touches
the roots
to flow, find the dew only the moist have
it goes
be comfortable the morning is gone...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem