How is it that we poets seem to be
Mere transient custodians of poetry?
For succinct words and phrases seem to fly,
Like unannounced meteors from the sky,
To crash through polluted atmospheres of mundanity
And still speak something salient of humanity.
How strange it is, but yet, it could be worse
If insight came as tepid prose, not verse.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem