The grass that has been trampled
will grow green once more.
The shrubs we've had to cut back
will put forth new branches
and grow round again.
The things I've forgotten,
the dear ones I've lost,
will another springtime come
when they will live again?
The evidence of what I hope for,
the substance of what I can't see -
where, where, where are they
if only in me?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem