Although I trudge only in my youth,
And as time bounds to its seasons of Black,
Father regards to me as if still swaddled in blanket,
Pacifier in hand,
Though I have grown with the willows that tower Mother’s mind.

Whilst, I may falter,
And not display equivalent par
Countered to the scholars neighboring,
Flame, nonetheless, expands in the depths of my soul.

For, albeit, I may seem young,
And many, even those who have failed to exchange a word,
See myself as a willing delinquent,
I still stand with the willows
Seeking everlasting satisfaction.