The comfortable has a region,
We have no excellent virtue
But the virtue of virtues,
For this compels our comfort.
Damaged we stay, and defenceless;
Defend us now that dirt arises,
From the days of broken natures.
Complete my exact existence,
Instil the hearts you hear with kindness.
The disillusioned beliefs infer a madness
That we have no complex with,
Just deeds are again our command.
Common virtues shall attain our circle,
The circle of kindness and relief.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem