When I sleep,
I think of when I will grow up.
Will I be something in life?
Or will I be a “nothing” on the street?
I think of myself as a tree,
Small now, but as it grows up,
Will it be big and green?
Or old, with no leaves?
But as I wake up,
Time has passed, and now I am old,
Like the old, dry tree with no leaves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem