The rain drops drizzle
Falling on the earthen ware
The same rain on the basket bowl
But the basket With weathered hands deployed
And the gourds rejoice in tightfistedness
Hence the baskets slips open
To being nothingness in and emptied of heart.
Tell the earthenware to rejoice silently
In the day of its glory
For today or tomorrow,
the rain will be abate
Then the season becomes a slave to the basket;
When the farm harvest is riped
For destiny and fate of all men
Belongs to God as nothing lasts forever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem