Highly-jollying was the sun,
and bright its every shade,
when i saw my little nun,
she was fighting her own fate.
She was thinking whether to cry,
or to laugh at witty comments,
with her braids all dry,
she received those nasty elements.
Her small note of elegance,
was all vanished in pain,
people forgot her importance,
and her every step went in vain.
I thought she somehow resembled me,
she had that forgiving innocence,
but i wish someone would help her see,
the light through her defense.
When i was little as her,
I'd love that cup of tea,
I'd love to compare what they were,
with what they were meant to be.
She skiddled across the lane with grace,
she jumped along the swings,
she glided through the rain,
she wobbled on the rings,
she cried at every mot,
she laughed at every joke,
she understood every single thought,
but she promised and never woke...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem