The poets are coming,
Let me hide behind
To escape them,
The literati,
I mean the intellectuals,
The poets and critics,
The pseudo-scholars,
Poets and critics,
With nothing to do,
But to write and write,
They themselves writers
And readers of their own poems.
My friend, even if they wait,
You make the words sent across
That he is out,
Even though I am in the house,
Say you untruthfully for my sake,
Just to save me
From the very mad, mad people,
I mean poets and critics.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A thought evoking poem indeed