Of this national theater in which we stay,
My people, deaf and dumb sit
Ignoring wrongs and all the pageants play,
Supporting and loving the offending wit.
Always enjoy when no glad occasion fits,
And remain masked in myth in this comedy:
Soon after when their joy to sorrow flits,
I cry and wail on this theater of tragedy.
Yet She, beholding all with optimistic eye,
False delights, nothing fail and smart:
But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry
She laughs with hardens heart.
What then can change her? If not people’s pain and moan,
She is not a nation, but a senseless stone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem