I cannot stop cursing myself
For not giving you
A better place
To rest your head
Than this frail frame.
What rest will you get from it?
Assailed by storms of endless desires, envy
Worries, aches and pains,
Heir to only a meagre slice of joy,
It grows old and weak,
Itself seeking a shoulder to cry on.
In my weakness, I fear to lose the will and love
That hold me to you:
The light in my hour of darkness,
The armour when I am besieged by doubts,
And the resting place when all hope is lost.
But you said once, that you will be happy
With whatever I can offer you:
Old, weak or ugly,
A leaf, a flower or a road side blade of grass.
I have therefore made of this heart
A place where you can henceforth
rest your head.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem