The wind will blow,
right on past us
on its way to somewhere else.
The world will spin,
right along with us,
going very, very fast.
Yet,
somewhere in this spinning world,
where the wind don’t blow,
a little child shares his woes,
to the icy cold.
“Who knows where I belong? ”
he says.
“Who knows where I shall live and die?
Who knows where I shall laugh and cry?
Who knows where I shall wake and lie
in this cold cruel world? ”
“No one even knows the truth.
No one ever can.
No one ever sees the truth,
and that is why I ran-
away, away, so far away,
almost back to yesterday,
to where the wind don’t blow.”
Where we sit,
the wind blows past us;
past us
on its way to somewhere else.
The world is spinning past us;
past us,
and at the fastest,
we may fling
ourselves right into everything.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
no one knows the truth, good one.