Give all of your learning to me,
So that I may obey the strict side,
In this season when storms are rife
In the mind and the torso.
In April, the winds pierce the perception,
Gifting us with stories of godly youths
In majestic houses that shudder from falling
Debris: then tell them to rise,
And after resurrection let them rest
To see the well in front of their suffering.
I found the windy path in the woods
To please my mastering children;
The flowers, fallen in the stream,
Made the waters bubble with love
And happiness for the bearing of right.
Here the mind sees the return of a godly
Plague, mastered by those in authority.
So that we court the royal men who act,
A little is pain for this respect, a physical essence.
King of the large region! Your kingdom!
If your entourage ask from you a tale,
Tell no more than the blame cast,
For the plague that benefits nobody,
The mind shall tell them not to rejoin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem