Loss Poem by Som Thao
Loss
The wind howls from outside
as if crying to the cold.
Autumn leaves take to the air,
yellow, orange, red, and gold.
She swirls them as if to hold
one last time before they die.
When the flakes begin to fall,
they will slowly rot on by.
When the days are deep with dark
and she moves across the snow.
Hear the sadness in her cry
when she finds no leaf to blow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/5/2024 6:43:24 AM # 1.0.0.1119
