EACH HAS HIS TRAITS.
Snail, don't wish for wings; a dog can't mew.
All your life, you move at that slow pace.
Creeping up rose trees, you saw a bird,
which has wings to fly; you craved for wings.

You are made to creep and leave behind
mucus that impels the flowers' hate.
Don't discern the birds with eyes of wish.
You can never fly to reach your dream.

Keep to your slow move; it is your trait.
Leaving your own dirt to trace behind.
What the birds can do you never can.
Don't let such a wish destroy your health.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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