In this drought-ridden pond
Or in a horrific ocean
Or in the dead of the sea
Salty and hard with no dreams or romance?
Where do I sing?
In this orchard full of dry plants
With no trees flowering
Among the ducks with mud on their beaks
Dirty and ugly with hoarse noises?
I know my men fight
And women stand by to take the fields;
I know my children are armed
In their hearts with love and warmth
So that man might not again succumb to war.
I love the sun and the night
I love the wilderness and the battlefield
I love to love and fight the fight
I don't lament the loss of dime or dame
So that I never hate myself or my people.
I belong to my reeds, I sing to myself
Of the reeds from whence I come
I recite rhymes of childhood days
When my father went to fight
To tear the fetters from his neighbor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ultimately the flute belongs to the reeds. The poet belongs to his/her traditions. Still the raw reed is transformed to a flute. The raw man from the past is transformed to an imaginative poet. Circumstances mould him.