The crafty rebel
slinks through the land
his wings are crooked
by the faith
of children.
Weak is the rebel,
who is the swift shade
upon the beautiful earth
under the weeping tree,
the darkened side of the hills,
and the coldness in the dirt.
The rebel owns all that is cold
where the shady children play,
but that is insignificant to
the many glowing children
that dance under the wholesome sun.
For the rebel sees
the children are heated
from their passionate dance
under
their father's warmth,
he offers comfort,
and many twisted amenities
to the children
of the earth.
Those whose dance is not with
fulfillment in their Father
become inclined to fall away
from his beautiful rays upon his land.
But those who dance, with pure hearts
sing the joys of why they dance.
And the falling children not only dance now,
but also sing under the sun
knowing that the night will come,
and all that is good
shall rest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem