[Spring Morning, por Karl Blau]
“Where am I going? I don’t quite know.
Down to the stream where the king-cups grow-
Up on a hill where the pine-trees blow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.
Where am I going? The clouds sail by,
Little ones, baby ones, over the sky.
Where am I going? The shadows pass,
Little ones, baby ones, over the grass.
If you were a cloud, and sailed up there,
You’d sail on the water as blue as air.
And you’d see me here in the fields and say:
«Doesn’t the sky look green today?»
Where am I going? The high rooks call:
«It’s awful fun to be born at all.
Where am I going? The ring-doves coo:
«We do have beautiful things to do.»
If you were a bird, and lived on high,
You’d lean on the wind when the wind came by,
You’d say to the wind when it took you away:
«That’s where I wanted to go today!»
Where am I going? I don’t quite know.
What does it matter where people go?
Down to the wood where the blue-bells grow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.”
A.A. Milne