Most good intentions are resting on the petals of a sunflower
wrestling against the autumn wind and straining to find the sun.
Slowly slipping from their golden platform
and meandering on a gentle thermal,
finding rest on the dry bracken ground,
only to then slowly decay
within the roughness of the soil,
and then be forever buried
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem