Classic Poem

In front of a police box I picked up a dead leaf.
A large dead leaf of a plane tree.
By its stem I hold it against the sun:
half gold, half verdigris
dye this slightly crinkled feather fan.
I like dead leaves of any kind.
Always abundant and warm,
rustling, never cloying,
they fly off if wind blows,
and before you know it, again pile up all around
and are bathing in autumn sun.
The smell of dead leaves is the smell of your native land,
above all, how friendly the blue smoke of burning leaves.
Ah how graceful those people of old
who kindled crimson leaves in the woods and heated their wine.
Although there's no wine to heat now,
friend, burn the dead leaves piled mountainously in your garden
and obtain potash for the farm behind your house.
I'm thinking how I should carve in wood
this leaf of a plane tree that I have picked.