He was still at her feet,
In a tone of despair,
As if he soon after came
And produced justice.
The unfortunate men were sure of that,
But justice belonged to justice,
And masters of the heaven
Were descending on the heart
Like wickedness,
That frightened all this in mighty health,
Replying to the question of reason.
A domestic world was a crazy soul,
He was still at her feet when deranged
By the worthiest feats and the trials
Of powerful kinds,
Descending and ascending in powers
That delighted the deviants,
Less than those in powers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem