A thick present is like a book,
It is opened for the look
And wades in for the kill,
Plenty of crime is in being ill.
The voluminous writers of poetry
Are again in love with learning labouriously.
They read them with phrases hurting,
Inside is pleasure of burning
On the right side of humanity,
But what of you and charity?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Words are just trying; they can never finish are thoughts! Lovely flow! tfs! ! !