One day the bard who thinks barbarically
Shall sing wondrous hymns of beauty.
The beauty works within your body
In a way too demanding of the soul.
The killing of music is equipping the singer
With more music and more fun and merriment.
He churns his songs from within, the innards
Are singing thanks to his song uttered.
Loudness was the concern, a bang is not good,
An impulse of hate and dear lovely music of noise.
Let the bards sing melodious sentences of joy,
The same as writing, the same as what the bard is.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem