I was a baby plant—
Who has been looked down,
Who has not suffered the meanness.
I was happy—
I used to stretch to the heaven,
My flute branches
Are playing the tunes.
What a tragedy it is—
There are those who see
That I am growing with joy
Beat an axe on my foot they try.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem