With firm yet gentle hands he stood,
Cradling an arching shred of wood.
Not as the archer prepares for the battle,
Or as the hunter with quiver to saddle,
But as a dad with a young infant child
Nurses it gracefully, tenderly mild;
When the trusting one drifts off to sleep,
The adoring father beams without a peep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem