We love the unturned leaf
and the roots of its tree.
The buds accompanying it
is often questioned,
'What fruit will you be? '
Will the bough hold
for the glowworms at night?
Will the bark peel
to reveal a wood of gold?
And tomorrow when
these are answered,
we look for another branch
until the last leaf is shed
and the trunk will hollow.
When finally the tree bears its last fruit,
we taste it and find out
that it is full of sorrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem