Sleep little child.
when beddy-bye comes,
plug up your ears
against the wild drums.
Dream, little child,
and pray not to wake,
for Life leads to Death,
foretold by heartache.
Love, little child,
while still you have time:
There's not a thing more,
in prose or in rhyme.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem