Prying eyes of passers-by fill me with anger, what business
is it of theirs whether I am sitting here or not?
Hating the leering questions falling from their sightless
eyes, I sit and hope for the demise of their unsucculent
intelligence.
Ignorance parading around the grounds dressed in robes of
learning, never even have gotten close to wisdom.
What fools pride makes of men as they strut their stuff,
knowing nothing except from ideas formed within their
heads.
Intelligence of a bygone bore who knows nothing of wisdom
or the changing of values and morals brought from steps of
time.
Found deep in monastery tunnels underground, these fools
know nothing of what is profound as they sit in wells of
knowledge, never absorbing a drop of it.
Remaining fools stuck within their silly, foolish pride.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem