A wooden bed and mat of straw
a little wayside room
where people cannot bother me
but sun can warm the gloom
A crust of bread that I can gnaw
a quilt of tattered squares
a hand rolled smoke a bit of chew
to ease me an' my cares
Don't need a window or a chair
don't matter if I wash
nobody knows the dirt inside
that keeps me chained and squashed
A wooden bed and mat of straw
a little wayside room
where people cannot bother me
but sun can warm the gloom.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Liila, what a wonderful piece about the basic need for shelter and private space!