Be poor materially it doesn't importune.
For such a thing I do not contend at my feat,
so nothing's gonna get me to browbeat.
I am not nor will be slave of the fortune.
God gave us wealth, and the mankind lose one's grip.
The mankind is covetous and merciless.
It degrades by earthly powers. Its coldness.
We are trapped in a dangerous black microchip.
Let us not be blinded by the gold or power.
The greed in mankind is like a big tower
or wall... Finite gods that become dust.
I feel lucky, despite all that the world says.
My haughty pen is my wealth, my way.
And in my pilgrim's bag, carry what I can adjust.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem