With my very own hands I laid my little daughter to rest
because she is of my very flesh,
Thus am I constrained to submit to the rule of parting,
so that my hand is now empty and contains nothing.
Bound to this moment we are in,
caught between the yesterday that has gone
and the tomorrow that is yet to come.
This flesh of mine is as pure silver,
while my inner reality is as pure gold.
Like a bow have I grown,
and my true posture is as my rib.
My Lord it is who says that He has created me
in a state of suffering and loss.
How then can I possibly hope for any rest,
dwelling as I do in such a place and state?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem