Which man, a perfect Being, calls himself?
When imperfect, the world seems naturally;
And more so when he is after more pelf;
And labels others, 'imperfect' freely.
All men are deficient in many ways,
Yet, point their fingers to the ones around;
They try to mask their own unsteady base;
Superior ones, they even try to hound.
But talents are God-given gifts to men;
In quantities, differing 'midst earthlings;
To -develop them, depends on our own ken;
None prevents you from wearing many rings.
Why blame others when you are blameworthy?
Why jealous be, when you are more ‘filthy’?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem