I see young saplings in a field,
Standing in a row.
Their branches reach to heaven,
In perpetual prayer.
They are so slum and tender,
That no one would harm them,
O cut them down for wood,
They'll grow there for quite some time,
As all living things should.
Like saplings, I would have my children grow.
When hard winds come.
They bend and bend
and do not break,
And lean and lean,
but do not fall.