We laughed as one, long and loud
Against the sombreness of the day
Dancing in the freshness all around on the hilltop,
But the rushing of the air warned us
Shivering limbs and shaking leaves,
Some already succumbed and fallen;
Purple thistle crowns waving magisterially
Under tight clusters of orange berries,
Store against winter's ills
All telling us the summer had gone.
In one final defiant collective display of joy
We ran until our legs ached
And breathed in lungfuls of the gusts
That had come to take the season away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem