Displaying faults that others try to hide,
I have become a paragon of crime,
allegedly, that is, for there’s a tide
with which we’ll all be swept one God finds time
to settle scores with those who’ve kept theirs hidden
far better than I’ve managed––when we’ll see
how many others do what is forbidden
before a turning tide turns to debris
and flotsam those who’d tried to keep concealed
the errors which in others are exposed,
condemned by them before they are revealed
to be less perfect than we had supposed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem