Book of good intentions,
Lay high in top shelf,
It tells of one's ascentions,
As if it one with itself,
Whispering 'you be brief',
Saying 'you be right',
Blaming those a thief,
For ones not seeing light,
It tells you 'do no harm',
Although that is just a stage,
Because even lacking arm,
It is danger page to page,
Because it has its proper end,
Although proper is what is not,
For it turns to tell and tend,
To not add a single dot,
The one most true good-book,
Must hold infinite lines,
For to be true at each look,
Would have to be changed always,
'Cause world have many o' truth,
But at each truth just one lie,
So much that at each sleuth,
It is painted different dye,
And one must write its own lines,
And do a write of its own,
Because that is what defines,
The good-book to be shown
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem