All agog to know as to happening around the world.
But none knows as to oneself.
In the abode of heart
There blows the wind of peace.
Sometimes peace is reduced to aches and ashes by envy.
Envy worm throws poison into the meadow of sense and conscience.
Poisoned sense forms melancholy widely.
Compunction drives soul always.
For having air of peace and mirth
Envy needs to be killed within oneself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem