There is a time
where at last
the wanderer finds a place of rest,
where the nomad does stop wandering,
are not blown around,
do find steadiness against the wind
and in that time
he is blind for the lure
of the highway.
Words do go to the depths of his heart,
while he has faith like a mere child.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem