The kettle sings, a morning hymn of steam,
Sunlight drifts slow across the quiet floor;
A child's small laugh ignites a waking dream,
And footsteps echo through the open door.
In simple acts, the heart finds hidden grace,
A tender note within the daily hum;
Each fleeting hour leaves beauty in its place,
A quiet truth that asks no pomp or drum.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem