When I was a child
and suffering
I wrapped myself in fantasy
like a warm cocoon
and though I looked quite ordinary
I knew I was wonderful within.
And what is insanity
except another form of reality?
And was I insane then
who heard voices in the trees-
pitiful voices making pitiful pleas?
For it was something more than
mere imagining
and it was something more than
just the breeze-
Perhaps the voices that I heard
were just another part of me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
voices that I heard, good writing, thanks.