Concentrate, concentrate and penetrate for worse,
Mighty disorders are aback, future remedies are in front.
To be an insult is too melodious, too masterful,
My actions are rehearsed, and as they are martyrs
We shall noisily purse the coins, cosy demands.
But plenty of wealth curses the congruent shapes,
Innocent internal festivities are afoot, do not be mean
To my futility, many-sided wrongs, multifarious songs.
What decides when I enter the level of life? The major
Instinct is too strong. Mighty deeds shall astonish the art.
My brain bellows while the short fence is broken down,
May certain skulls elate the horizon, without the curtains
Of the brain, the heart of another beast, a side too alert.
Must we stand in awe of death when the mighty beasts
Lurk and devastate too swiftly as I shift my gear of sizes?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem