Spring hardly gets its due
as Autumn's yellow from last year
sits in memory like embers.
Summer songs are sung in haste
as Winter keeps its time.
Drums play two octaves hign
and make our fears sit low
as we go savouring the season.
Time keeps coughing its marching notes,
and our days are fraught with the pain of ending.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem