There is more to be heard
in the lapping of lake water
beneath the grey stoic cedars
in the birdsong of the oak wood
a mosaic in shades of green
in the lazy afternoon breeze
waterside, moving leaf and branch
than from the chattering lips
in the peopled places, and
the unending nonsense there, the
squeaking doors, banging windows
of empty, untended houses
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nature has its own presence. Your poem gives us those images. Well expressed.