One ball of ice shares another rare object,
It decides like a leader of the wastes and plains.
One asking sentence is apt to recede like the wind,
In ever-decreasing circles, and planking action.
The circular men are the shaped deliverers
Of faith and action, in all its purity.
One ball is bouncing too hard if we are to wait,
Licking the ice will break our tongues in
All of this honest life and death;
The world springs like a work offering mankind
The daily habits of a thankful servant.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem