I know little
Compared to the aged mountains
And the trees that blow in the wind
For whence their wisdom came
From the years that passed
And their stature built gradually
With a sureness that time imparted,
My thoughts have been forged
In the fiery kiln of a short lifespan
With no time for reflection
Or chance to re-enact;
My steps have been uncertain
And stumblingly taken
In the knowledge
That they cannot be retraced
With the short future to be faced
Where seasons pass so swift
And the oak trees grow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem