Who told you that the clouds are lonely?
They have the sky as their confidante.
Who said that the stars won't shine,
once the day dawns?
It will. It never dies.
Who claimed to be the best?
In a world that lives with imperfection.
Who shouts there? Aye, you!
Are you him, who fills the ears of my little one,
with your misconceptions?
Who spoke of a good time gone?
When it can always come back as your sight.
Who said that the winds die,
as soon as you cannot feel them anymore?
Who screams that the world will end?
Funny them, they speak of their own death.
Dear little baby, as I see your burnt face,
and you look at me with your tear filled eyes wide with curiosity,
who says that Mama won't find it pretty anymore?
It is my sunshine. And it will always be so.
As I try to quel your fears for tomorrow,
I tell you, walk.
Walk happily on to the beach.
Play amongst the waves, roll on to the sand
and I'll flip you a ball.
The light blue clouds who, they said was lonely, will smile at you.
They will play with you, even if those who breathe- don't.
The clouds will show you shapes of white,
That they steal from across the universe
Guess their shapes, guess their destination.
Call them back and shout, "Hey! Witherto you go?"
Ah! no, don't.
Don't look at your burnt hands.
And here you whispered, "Mama"
Who said that only a word can never delight your heart?
Dear little daughter,
Those rosy cheeks that I patted, may not be so rosy anymore.
But I love them, more than I loved them earlier.
They stand tested against time.
They stand tested against flames.
Who said that the flowers won't smile at night?
Who said that now your smile doesn't dazzle bright?
Who said that the fog won't give up a hue?
It does. It does.
Who said that they know between wrong and right?
Who said that they can figure out the speed of light?
Who said that death will make a soldier give up his fight?
It doesn't, it never does.
And I cry, as my eyes burn.
Who said Mama's sad?
She ain't, my little rose,
She cries as she thinks of all the ridicule that you will go through,
the looks that your hands, flame-devoured, will see.
She cries as she thinks of all the things that the world will say
and your innocent mind may never able to refrain
From the same tears Mama cries today.
Who said that the trees will not sing?
who said that in sorrow, time goes slow?
Who said that the poet can always see?
It's never true.
Oh, ma fille,
Who said that I won't rock you to sleep?
Who said that I won't sing you your lullaby softly?
Let them say, whatever they want to,
My little one.
Let them be.