It was a cultural blessing, for the face of leaves,
Unwrapping themselves with a silent mind.
The face was upturned to relics, to artifice,
And to sentenced weaponry, the bleeders.
Then a smaller circle, an attribute of rate,
Spun its presence to win charismatic appeal,
The favoured ones diminished like a small tower
Raised by the cross helpers, the utterly cross.
It was an unshakeable bond of wooden legs,
Hardy folk were enemies from a far off generation.
The older anger was the subtle anger,
This blessed house had many years in the circles.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem