Ignorant, sniggering, arrogant hyenas
Can dance on the grave of a literate lion.
But they will never be lions. For they're cowards.
Many hacks may briefly prosper, yet the true bard
Waits until the time is ripe to make his entrance.
He manages to wrest golden fate from mere chance.
O he is not blown this way and that by the winds
Of fashion! And unperturbed by the endless din
Of distraction, he's emboldened by an inner light,
That guides him through many a lonely, dreadful night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem