Sir,
They asked me
Is it art?
Is it a man looking at his first sunrise?
What boundless joy we have when we pass!
Is it precise like the carpenter’s hand?
What pains we suffer for a glance!
Is it so pressing as the will of a child for ice cream?
What we will not give for a-
Does it possess and leave prints?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem