When we honestly assess ourselves,
Lay bare all the things from our shelves,
Reluctantly we have to confess,
We are none of the things we profess.
There in our secret places
Apathy and sympathy are in pieces;
We spare a rupee for the beggar
And in our hearts we become bigger.
Beneath the bottomless trenches of our hearts
Lay Virtue's palace build of cards.
Our thoughts grow bolder and seldom cower,
But to stand beside the righteous is beyond our power.
We are all Love's lover,
Champions, man-at- arms, her protector.
Here the orphan despised and diseased beckon
Deaf to her call we supposedly carry Love's beacon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem