Cloth is washed
With soap,
And body and
The soul is washed
With poems.
Cloth is there
To turn
Body is there
To burn
But soul is there
Not to die
Not to born.
For the soul
We are here,
O my dear, let
The soul hear,
Write a poem and
Recite a poem
That is love
That is truth
Without fear
Without favour.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem