I’ll strike the Ball –
In a never –trodden way towards Point;
To observe those distant fall,
Of a long plateau next to start,
With Sharp steam – and no recoil.
On follow, that will never follow the world
Above highest glacier of heaven –
And again accelerating down – world,
And may not pitch on the cold – arm soon,
Into hole of the best Golfer; godly – legend.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem