Now it's almost half a millennium since it fell
The astute pen that joyed England and the world.
The enigma of all times that no man can tell,
Nor had any sage of the long past foretold
That such a towering ink the earth may churn.
I know there's much bliss in that other world
Where jubilation is said to be infinity-fold,
Unlike the measly and spasmodic joys of this earth,
That come with fine and levy to trim any mirth
Smitten men may have gained from gruesome labor,
Or anything heaven might have given as a favor.
You trailblazing ancestor of a noble loin:
Let amateur heirs love your arts of rhyme,
And your fine-dignified enterprises join.
May your trade defy sore ravages of time,
May this sage tot read from your high groin -
And from thy noble toil earn fame and dime.
Repose sound till your duteous proteges fall,
Until it's attained his pen's sublime goal.
And when his eyes on ink-tasking toils close,
To uncomplaining enter art's blissful repose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice piece. Pongezi kaka.