Cold Winter

Under the cold cover of the winter,

Though shine bright the weather,

The green grass of the forest withers,

And the death of the wild start.

The morning after the sun rises,

There comes the poet with a broken Pencil,

The ungathered memories of the forest,

The writings of the poet are not clear.

The evening of the wild winter,

The cold colour of the poet's words,

Elegy of the autotrophs makes the rivers flow,

For the fading of the leaves takes wildlife,

The unplanned step will stumble,

For the winter brings memories with destruction.