As I search through a forest of which I am in.
Deep as its dark and wrapped up in sin
Where all winners are losers and all losers win.
And the rifle is held slightly right under your chin
This meadow, this bridge, these skies, this pond
I hear the sweet birds and hear their sweet songs.
And I’ll think of heaven until I am gone.
Though my version of heaven is probably wrong
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem