My boy, look here at my hand
It remembers all the bows and darts
It has the map to the brook of separtion
where you have come from a far off place
Hold on! I do not drink from these streams
I go to the hills to take a little rest
lying down there to cool myself
and throw my worries to the winds
By the hour and minute we left our
mark on the trails we trod on!
Where's the map of these tangled trails
we carry on our frozen faces?
Do not be afraid, here is my hand
Extended to you through the ages.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem