We are shy children.
Why wish us ill then,
When we sing our songs for pleasure?
We are God’s children.
Who pays the bill then,
while we play amongst the heather?
Whilst we’re still children,
Will He explain then
What it is that we should treasure?
If it’s not love
Or heav’n above, when
we receive the farewell sermon,
will we remain then
singing and playing
amongst the decaying heather?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem