Sleatswetter by it bytfabryk, wytljocht
at ik moarns wekker waard en it seach.
De romten dy't mar net ôfsletten rekken,
dûzeljende noaten op 'e westerstoarmen.
Net de toarst net de honger net hy net
doe't ik de heale moannen skjinhimmele.
Mar it sleatswetter, as de reindrippen
en reade surch stoffich by it spoar del.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem