Itinerant pilgrims
Roaming round the corner
Jangolova wheels
Spinning up and down
Like pestle
Lost in the blowing wind
Blowing us with leaves
Into the sweet hands of rain
Bedraggled like birds
We close our eyes to bed.
The poet recalls childhood innocence with a sting of nostalgia.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Into the sweet hands of rain. Children love playing in the rain. Childhood exuberance is shown here.