In the hour when senile summer breathes her last, 
The vim of her ego births a somnolent child.
Rising forth from the yawning pit of newness, 
Dyed with shades of seasonal confetti, 
Fall rises with a spectrumed diadem.
October reigns with a high degree of splendour, 
Braiding strands of leaves with threads of gold.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    