A chill childish morning is unfolding
A shrill whistle through lips full.
A foggy dream this must seem
To listeners of the young trill wisher.
No reply heard from he, to his melancholy.
So he sits still and whistles shrill still
‘till the morning calm which is gone before long
and then off to other adventures fill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem