When winter brings its storms
And tempests
It does not pity feel
Nor think retracting
No, it goes on
As a tank mowing
A harvester the fields
And corn before all moving
Summer goes on, Spring
Goes on, but they some
Pity feel to this propense:
If there be heat sometimes
The winds will fan
But winter no,
Except in days,
When the humbled sun
Goes out again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem