I must read only children’s books,
Cherish only children’s thoughts,
Scatter all big things far and wide,
Rise up from the deep-rooted sadness.
I’m weary to death of life,
And accept nothing from it,
But I love my unfortunate land
Because I’ve not seen any other.
In a far-off garden I swung
On a simple wooden swing,
And the tall somber fir trees
I recall in misty delirium.