I have a contrast to state, that you are dense,
And I am thin, that you scorn me whilst I am rich.
To be dainty is to be scornful of my reminder,
The strain is aloof you say and state, but it is scare
And you must care, like all who are tall with their ball.
Rare are the practices of the rich, poor are those who
Understand a little helmet is for safety.
My hat is beautiful, yours is a chair of extinct material,
My clothes are becalming, yours are plunging you
Into sin or laziness, like the stench of a semi-heaven.
For you are tainted, my friendly one, my poor one,
Who is respectable like me, but I am repulsed by poverty.
It fumes me, it will wear the rare act, and I am calling
To your kin to rejoice when death has become a rose
Wherein I enter to receive the passage of my haughtiness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem