I am fathers note that he wrote today,
Tossing and turning in total disarray,
Wimble wamble is there a way?
Scribble scrabble,
paradox locks.
Tie us not to the sun of the day,
But to a magical way,
To bend the very ink,
That he wrote today.
We ceased to twirl,
Lying beneath a tree,
Silence on our shadow,
When a bird began to see.
In her soul,
Woven was the key.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem