The leaves where colour now has bled,
The green, the brown, the gold, the red,
As they volunteer to fall, to shed,
Are they dying, or, already dead?
Their swan-song, saying, look at me,
I sacrifice myself, to save my tree,
The leaves where colour now has bled,
The green, the brown, the gold, the red.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem