I saw the clay of cemeteries to be dry;
always dry for ever life.
In the winter nights,
the rain will pass trough the valley;
heard the strong beatness of rain;
night after night, day after day
it still beaten the valley.
I resigned myself from the way
with a small newborn in my hand,
as an stray, from there
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem