As tempest of a salty spew
Whose view of World is wild, askew
These words that you will spake!
What trips ere from your tongue is fact?
‘Tis not pure thought; which is most lact
But billage that you rake.
Who wrote this book of words you quote?
‘Twas Man, of Man! So now it’s mote?
O, tempest, where’s thine eye?
In quiet times I pity thee,
Though have you claims to higher be,
In truth, we cousins lie,
More sightless than your blinded foe!
Until the battle’s won? I know.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem