As I sit on a bench,
I wonder daily of my past, present and future,
And I ask myself why I have become so sobribrytic,
What manner of toughts are these?
Yes indeed, after the sunshine,
comes the rain,
But mine is neither drizzles nor downpours,
Mine is a cyclone,
It has blown me nothing but illwills,
Ha, I cannot abide with thee oh house of treachers,
Begone! An illwind is what you are,
Begone at once I say!
Begone!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like it, very good write!