Trees shed,
Ostensible hairs,
Actual tears,
This season,
Gray season.
Ominous skies,
puffed with particles,
particles of pure joy.
Skies rain down pure joy!
Days of pure joy;
Beautiful and yet,
we get but four,
and none more.
Gray season, indeed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem