The soul comes with a snow white crest,
And so seen in, infants from yore!
They smile and weep, but no pretext.
No matter how much you adore!
They are true gift, from God the lord!
Who has showered on you, his grace!
Both you parents teach them concord,
That will prepare his soul for peace.
Beware you may make him a saint!
Or make him a rouge men will hate.
Be black or white, as you may paint
And that will mar or make his fate!
Soul is housed in, a prism clean
That reflects true hue, of the soul.
And shout to world, on what he lean,
Be it the gift of god or devil.
Don't paint them with too dark, shades bold,
Of dark or blue and deep red bold.
They turn selfish, and crush the world
And smash the marvels of this world.
…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem