Made strokes on the book,
Forc'd virgin eyes to look.
With intuities he served,
To ignorance was exile.
Many a lovely poet,
By you and your sweat.
Learnt and earned penny,
By which they're many.
Here is the *comic relief,
By heart that's hard to belief.
After thy longsuffering work,
By death you are hawk.
The luxuries you've wroth in this sphere,
Are far from yours, Oh Shakespeare!
C.2017
Dedicated to william shakespeare
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem