I slowly drag the ancient plough of language
Across the parched earth of forgotten meaning.
I look for signs of a change in the weather.
Once firm trees and radiant flowers bloomed here,
But those rich days of gold and green are long gone.
Now harvest time is increasingly meagre.
O each spring I await new gifts from the gods!
Yet like the angels, they have disappeared.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem