A man sits alone on the bus stop
While he waits for his number
He hurriedly eats a cool bread
Pieces of bread are scattered.
The bus arrives,
He hurriedly claims and feels happy
because he does't to late.
But the bus stop is very basling
Sparows swoop down and the party starts
At last pieces of bread run out
Sparows fly on a trees
While wait for a another party
They argue things meaningless.
what is happiness? A cool bread, a litle of pleasure because our bus doest lo late, or pieces of bread...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The simple things in life are the most pleasurable. On the other hand they can also upset us. Nice.