IN SEPTEMBER…
In September,
When the plane-tree
Is a proud sight,
And when its short-lived,
Yellow grief
Goes with the wind,
It stands there
With its bare hands
Raised to the sky,
All frozen and chilled,
And begs the sun
To restore it to life.
Translated from Georgian
Timeless moments between heaven and earth, we who observe. Shaun.
I am standing watching myself stark incontrast like life itself 10 Chris x
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
so beautiful.............thanks for sharing