GREEN blood fresh pulsing through the trees,
Blacks buds, that sun and shower distend;
All other things begin anew,
But I must end.
Warm sunlight on faint-colored sward,
Warm fragrance in the breezes’ breath;
For other things art heat and life,
For me is death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem