What to the core
Playtime's stamp bore.
My little rolling life's joy
Rolled on too sore!
Each roadside drain
Echoes the pain.
Every roof slab, with slanting
Rain-swept again.
Down childhood hours
Who for it scours
Retrieves in heart, what shaped them
For bounced vigours.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem