My life - a sand grain in the sea of death.
If I could fight you, throw at You
The curses of our life, your breath.
But no, my Lord, I'm pitied, small and weak.
I'm wingless, lonely, my soul sick...
My Lord, if I was lord and you my slave,
I would not do to you what you have done to me
And now, I'm pitied, small and weak...
From land where pain and terror rule,
I came to people, knocking on their doors.
I wanted place to rest, by warmth of hearts
Even be warmed by Human, dusty floors.
But even though your hearts are warm,
Again I'm exiled to the frozen land.
I called them, waited, called again from Dark
They heard, and still - - they couldn't understand.
This is not my poem, but it is my translation to English
