The morning was not old'
When our souls longed for a drink;
And the years of famine,
Did not aim to feed us...
Our hearts rose louder than the clouds '
And the question heat from the storm;
From heaven fell grave worm's '
And ate up our olive which barely grow;
Ah... it made us sow...
Again, in tears and odd time.
Our wine went out of life '
Out of our flesh and bones;
Our drunkenness has found a cure.
When the famine is gone and the land purge'
From the curse of wine;
Is the death of famine...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem