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Poem

What is this spring if, laden with grief,
I have a wish to see trees coming into leaf

And their foliage nourishing, beginning afresh –
And being as soft as the touch of Zaldania’s flesh;

And their verdance gleaming in the sun,
Where children can hide and seek and have fun.

A wish to lie beneath the trees and watch the stars,
At night when breeze sways humbly the grass;

And the boughs of trees rustling in the cold,
Like something almost being told.

A wish to hear jovial birds chirping in trees during the day –
To relish their melodies and their vernal songs and be gay;

A wish to lo and behold with a smile, trees growing high,
Come new season, they seem to say with a beseeching sigh;

And wash away these shriveled leaves again,
So we can blossom new lease of grain –

And help recover the branches that were cut into wood,
By these people who reside in the neighbourhood; 

A wish to sit and watch the trees dance,
To fulfill my leisure whilst I enjoy their glance.

And sing a jolly song as I watch them shake,
Hence slumber in their shadow and tarry to wake;

Just like they once died and then began anew,
I also wish that if I die I come back too.

O dreadful this spring if, laden with grief,
I have a wish to see the trees coming into leaf.

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