I am the chorale of the wistful songbird
Carried by the sirocco wind
Echoed amidst the mirthful gale
Should her soft voice gently bend.
I am the laughter of the jubilant frog
Reflected by his many kin
A lyric to fill the meadow bog
And his lady's true heart win.
I am the babbling of the brook
Whose conversation is yet to be heard
Told not by eyes nor ears nor mouth
But by swirling waters, who sweetly purred.
I am the old oak tree on the hill
And the forest right beside
And the vines betwixt and tangled there
Where many a creature thus reside.
I am the murmur of the mouse's heart
And the tears of the handsome clouds
But no one's yet heard my true name
For it's never been spoken aloud.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem