The library of books to do with life are great,
Inside them we discover a whole new story.
Their covers are as hard to swallow as fish,
Meeting a drinker dissolves your hatred of reading.
The drinker is a drunkard of the odd variety,
He reads like an angel when his wings number many,
But then they shed due to drink, and the beer has departed.
For this reading composes the mind,
The books of ancient nature fall from the shelves,
They burn by the dozen and leave us with true knowledge.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem