I thought I'd served her long enough,
and sat dejected and confused
despairing of the lady's love,
when something gave my hopes a boost.
You'll laugh at me (it seems so small,
more of a consolation prize)
for taking comfort there at all;
but I could feel my fortunes rise.
What cheered me was a blade of grass:
I measured out a stalk I'd plucked
(as children do to learn their luck)
and it said she'd offer me her grace.
Listen and judge if you think she might:
'She will, she won't, she will, she won't, she will.'
As much as I've tried it, it's come out right,
but you have to trust in the grass's skill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem