And they sit on the floor of the shore
The wind tosses soft tides towards them
Some have their legs buried beneath waters
Ankles deep, they smile at everything
Reminiscing of their youthful days
They have been terrific as country boys
Fortune and necessities took them away
While there, they grow old with time
Now, age have brought them home
Home is where you return to at will
And they accept you without grumbling
Time steals all that we have except home
So they sit, quietly, each lost in his thought
And the wind makes fuss of their white hairs
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Home is home; no matter how unpleasant, home is home...