Upon a hill is a sword that intimidates,
It strikes at the expense of tragedy,
What does it do but fabricate debates,
Meaningful dates are spoken with ability.
Upon a chance so acute, the sword is handed
To a singer of reasonable songs
Finding waters of lovable words like pearls
From an abalone.
Upstairs the heavens are crossed to come across
A weapon of magic, abhorrently working
And chiming the time-clock like applesauce,
Where the orchards keep with infinity but abating.
The sword does not love being abolished,
With adoration it speaks of hatred abounding;
The dagger is shorter and inadequate, brandished
Like a weapon in abbreviation, one that is abandoning.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem