Ask a soul, who is the essence
Of the child, eternal
What distracts it, momentarily
Through its gaze, perpetual
And it will point you: 'this earth-life! '
That boxed up, for a toy
Shiny as new, wound up as morn's
Carefree-held noisy joy.
Wise to the process, taught through tears
Of having to accept
Its workings sometimes grate; or worse;
Fall apart; not well kept.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem