Early morning, watching gusts of wind snap and twirl tree
branches about in the early rising sun.
At the mercy of the wind, being bent and tossed all over,
amazingly not being broken in two by it's force, yet
feeling myself within, being tossed around by inner
breezes of turmoil.
Understanding the fate discovered in intellect is at the
same level as tree branches having no control over the
situation at hand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem