Critics are said to have a heart
Which remains unmoved by the art.
They are of such a race or caste
As earns by making fun of art.
When they see anew star appear
In the sky of literature,
They weave a net of criticism
In which they try to entrap him.
But they cannot catch the artist,
As he surpasses them in wit.
When they find their net is empty,
They become very much sweaty.
When he gets commend of pen men,
From their hand falls their bitter pen.
Their comments oft help in his rise,
And are the blessings in disguise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem