* *
The love, perhaps, is an institute
Wherein no everyone wants to learn is
Where Joy and Sorrow, all the days and nights
Lead a lessons for the students.
And an intricate books I flip the pages,
But inevitably I am convinced
That we able to learn not everything
On the unsuccessful experience of others.
I studied, but the knowledge was fragile.
I bruise, was undone.
I made a rough mistakes,
Told not right and behave not right.
I have not succeeded, though was, in fact,
The eternal student in this Institute.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem