What would happen if the rose,
Lost its thorns for eternity?
Getting separated from dignity,
As if poetry giving the impression of prose.
Alas! The thorns and their helplessness!
Unable to keep back,
The zenith from the whack,
Of the awfully avaricious.
Left they are with the silent cry alone,
Leaving behind the ephemeral contribution.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem