We were just little children
In war torn wayside lanes
Yet roses were still blooming
In fields of pink and white
The little goats were grazing
In yards of villagers
Providing milk and cheeses
When all the stores were closed
I wished that some kind housewife
Would offer me a rose
A pretty one and fragrant
But none stretched forth her hand
I wondered what it felt like
To drink some fresh, warm milk
Or taste a slice of white cheese
On bread so dark and thick
But none was there to offer
A crumb or cup of milk
For I was way too bashful
And would have run away
We were just little children
In war torn wayside lanes
Yet roses were still blooming
In fields of pink and white.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem