Shall my sorrow once turn to laughter?
Who is he that has prophesied?
You false prophet hold it to yourself.
When shall I become a man? When?
Even then manhood is a struggle;
I crept and toiled daily for subsistence
As though the cursed serpent
But cursed I was not.
Have all not developed teeth?
Yet teeth development remains a dream to me.
Have all not stood and walked?
Yet walking remains a dream to me.
O', ornament of the most God
Feed me with the milk of thy breast
As though a child fed by his mother;
I am this child of the boneless,
Within me lie these potencies of creativity
Though not yet full to create,
Still on the struggle to manhood.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem