Cry no more, child,
When a cold hand grips your soul…
Sometimes the sun may wake long before the cocks
And then the moon must die an early death;
Sometimes the moon may rise at midday
Sending the sun to a sudden sleep
And the birds to untimely roost;
Sometimes horrendous rains may pour in mid-sun
Sending seven colours across the golden sky;
Sometimes the sun may shut its blazing eyes
And dark clouds spread gloom like mourning clothes
Over grief-stricken earth;
Sometimes choral birds may chant sweet Handel
On beautiful eves;
Sometimes portentous beings may hoot doom
Through dark sinister nights;
Sometimes warm arms will welcome you home;
Someday your doting mum shall return no more.
So weep not, child,
Should a sinful spear drive through your saintly soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem