Where do I stand,
If not on the ground?
Where do my feet land,
What Earth have they found?
Do I climb clouds,
Or hike through the sky?
And if I look down,
Would I fall and die?
Do I trudge through the sea,
Through the deepest trench?
Am I doomed to be,
A haggard old wench?
Do I walk alone,
No one by my side?
A face that's not shown,
But chooses to hide?
Am I accursed,
Doomed to my death?
Shall I rehearse it,
As I draw my last breath?
What hell do I face,
If not of my own?
Without is my haste,
Within is my moan.
A cry to above,
A cry to below.
A cry of my love,
A cry of my woe.
What hand do I clasp,
What help do I hope?
Will it slay the Asp,
Or hang the rope?
What Hell is this,
That I contend?
What brave assault,
Shall I defend?
I see a home,
A home built strong.
And now I know,
For what I long.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem