Born, in every birth
Of lives sore released;
Dying to be worth
Their spirit's trouble.
By what we know not
Assailed at once;
Crying on the spot,
And world-denouncing,
Mother's hand, first bares
Immediate good.
"Whence comes this that dares
Confront, in my son
For the fiends they are
Of excitations,
That through pangs are known
Of halted knee-cap? "
It is that, jolts us
Blind to destiny
Out of brooding thus:
"No meaning hath life".
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem