Don't read this poem; it is a lie.
A poet is merely a truth-born liar,
His tongue is naked and never shy-
It spits the torrent of flood and fire.
A poet is a fire burning in water,
And a stream of water flowing in fire.
His presence is not really of a matter,
But his absence in life's circuit is a missen wire.
A poet is a truthful lie in life's lying truth,
He is an avid avatar of arrant anonymity.
A poet is a lean deceit behind the fat bum of brute.
He wears the mask of stupidity behind his sincerity.
A poet is a godly gardener in a brothel,
And he is a blind observer of opportunities.
A poet is as deep as a dry well,
And a keen thinker of the reasons of his inabilities.
A poet is a believed unbeliever,
And an unbelieved believer.
He is a righteous unrighteousness,
And an unrighteous righteousness.
A poet is a lying witness of a truthful lie,
And he is a truthful witness of a lying truth.
A poet is a merciful murderer that can never die,
He is the truth in every lie, and the lie in every truth.
Rethink this poem; could it be a lie?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem