My mother dresses her hair in a wreath
Not of roses or thorns or thorny roses
but an opulent garden of tulips
whereupon virtue is an ageless tenant
and mirth a constant visitor
Betwixt those flawlessly wrought petals,
that fragrant foliaged labyrinth
of scarlet and yellow misgivings
is sired a glow so bright
it bereaves the blind of sight
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem