From my terrace
I watch birds flying at pleasure,
Singing their songs of emancipation.
Looking to the ground
A squirrel works hard, laboring for its food,
Tormenting over tomorrow’s fate.
The squirrel so busy doing,
Its whole existence consisting of agonizing thoughts
Of a doomed tomorrow.
Never notices the bird’s patterns, different from its own,
Creating songs of delight for an audience of squirrels
Who will never fathom the deliverance of faith.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem