Thought painted books and statues,
Vain researches on morbid reasons,
Rules and conventions of kings and priests,
May fade in to a magician’s wallet,
And never, never, I will have any objections.
I wish a peg of song on grassy mat,
After sweat earned lunch in a mud-hut,
Oh! No corporation of scorpion’s intellect.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem