I understand what mountains
the frigid wind is blowing from.
All smoke from placid chimneys
must billow in directions pre-ordained.
Weeds are not candles in the wind,
what are they then, you ask, my child,
a weed may be a plant of unknown
unknoweable and undiscovered virtues.
A flower in disguise, an unloved flower?
And who would be the one to separate
the flowers from the weeds in any garden?
And why, my child and all who do believe
a garden without weeds, it seems to me
is like a House of God without its share of sinners.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem