Far off too the distant land my sea.
Such is each wave different we-race froward.
Three percent skimmed rich in Futures grace
With thee, 'I cherished the stride the pace.
The well worn way, I pursueth walking through,
forlorn are whom, that wear a smileless face.
The whole year through.
Made roses and stems, from tireless hard use.
Thorns once when beggered, blunted are refused.
When bloody red roses, are heavy made full.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem