And even children, small children - 
Blessed less we forget the burden of the years. 
There is still a long way ahead - to be 
Grown up and sad and remembering. 

If only the children and the oppressors of our soul, 
Pickers of roses like flowers of standing grain

They will not be angry, their treasure is not over yet 
And the sun laughs at the splinter of their tears. 

And even children, small children...