When hounds growl
At the exanimate sun
There's no loss to the sun,
When they do at a person
There'd be a teeny affliction,
Withal with the self-will
If the alive individual
Is determined to let go,
Then too, the growling hounds
Would not stop being covetous,
But the person'd become a dove
Gifting oneself the feel of ataraxis.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem