Guesses are made perfectly by the wise,
Intrepid adventurers cancel our life
For though thinkers are also thought of,
My guess is also the same perfection.
Guests of some knowledge are bedded in these chambers,
Within those familiar works are the church relics;
We thought and thought over the real church,
Bent on thinking wisely like the guesses of perfection.
Churches stand tall for daily consumption,
Opening their gates once a day, once a night,
Their relief is staggering on the soul,
As you might pray and sleep with the right thoughts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem