A hero is born not from the laurels
Of glory but from the sweet lullabies
Of a loving voice, safe from the quarrels
Of a burning world and its desperate cries,
Until one day when the voice disappears
And the child has grown and views with his eyes
The horrors around him, and shedding tears,
He sings to the world his own lullabies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem