the sun comes up,
spreads its warm mantle and cloak
its beams make me smile,
it's good to know I'm still alive
and have much to look forward to
then I come to my senses,
and fool that I am
turn on the medias
just for a cursory look,
death murder and pillage
pain and sorrow
forecast a bad tomorrow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Let the medias blast, Shimon, if they will. Stay with the beams of sun that make you smile and bury all the pain and sorrow in mountains of joy that good may live and triumph. keep at it, Shimon and give us more of the peace of your heart.