We prefer,
Beauty to the duty,
Cruelty to mercy,
Luxury to morality,
We are brought up
On the swings of ambitions,
And have remained astray
In the forest of lust.
We have trampled,
Gems of inner-self with the steeds
Of our own passions.
Our appetite has devoured us all,
And high castles of thoughts,
Buried beneath the debris
Of worthless infertile words.
O! Strange philosopher,
Out of reach lie our own skills,
Concealed from ourselves,
Yes the same all skills which make
Us gods but remain possessed
By the brute of our own inner-self.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem