O the sages of time
Are guiding your rhymes
Like the great bards
Or you just playing card?
No, no, never at all
You are mixing the intense gall
In the veins of new generation
Just for getting the remuneration
Singing such lustful songs
Which incite for only wrongs?
Eliot Keats and Wordsworth
Sobbing for your written mirth
Joke with the humankind
You do ever and not mind
Milton can not jolt you
Even Dryden cannot too
Pope Spencer and Shelley
You have pushed them to alley
Coleridge’s fantastic mind
Is unable to you bind
What for you write o dear
When some aim is not near?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Dear Akram, The ancient seers who are remembered even today, are those, who had experienced life at an elevated plane and distilled it and reduced it to poetry, for the benefit of the posterity. Hence the longing for a peep into the wisdom in the leaves of their creations is understandable and has been conveyed beautifully in your poem. Love, my dear friend.