The wind whistles overhead,
now loud, now low,
sounding rather melancholy,
rather foreboding.
An old man
totters past me,
his hand holding on tightly
to his thick, cotton-padded cap
while the wind goes on whistling . . .
The wind whistles inside my ears,
now strong, now weak,
sounding rather solemn,
rather wild.
A child coming home from school
runs past me, laughing with delight;
a handful of coloured paper scraps
at once dances through the air
while the wind goes on whistling . . .
Suddenly, I feel an inexpressible joy:
my black hair
is ruffled in the wind,
is singing in the wind.
1980
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem