When thought turns
to what ought to be,
I do not think of war,
I do not think of peace,
or of love, or tedium.
When thought finally
gets down to things
that really matter,
I think of the day
in quiet meditation.
The morning sun
casts a golden light;
there is a blue sky.
A light winter breeze
postpones the night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem