Water washes my throat,
Which is dry.
Light opens my eyes,
Which are tired.
Something else takes my hands
And tries to give me a hoist.
But I don't have a strength
To rise to one's feet.
Something else gives me a soft stroke,
Leans slow and says:
, , I would carry you,
But you self muss to learn rise up and go'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem