I have crazy helpers and lepers,
All of the scripts say wonders
Of the high profits and worries
That submerge and emerge
Like quilts and pillows of help.
I have the insane helpers of late,
Labourers cancel their heavens
As the later sort are the punctual
Asking me a question,
Or are they?
The lift of the centuries is old,
The uplifting understanding
Is in men who are goalkeepers,
The shooting practice is late,
Like the practice and you will be ill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem