I have a scrutiny of meticulous books,
I wage war on the sensibilities and hooks,
By the jeopardy of the soul, and benevolence
Too cold, so kind are they all, so kind.
Words become a holocaust when directed,
To be feasible a book enlightens for food,
But these are dockyards, those are mere sounds
Of the world, at war and at averse conditions.
My amicable maid is a wordless soul, a wife of
Jokes and jaundice, the disease of the soul,
That impetus to subjugate the fabric of society,
By the jeopardy of the soul which is at war.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem