Can he not loudly cry,
stomp his small feet,
or form an angry fist?
Can he not run to his
heart's content and be
unmindful of falling?
Can he not laugh so
boisterously and loud,
and wake a slumber?
Can he not inquire
repetitive questions,
and demand answers?
These and many more,
are the little queries,
of the innocent soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem