The fathers of the lane are stressed,
Let their memories flow from blessings,
And their dignity be addressed.
My factory is the factory of places
Widely viewed and scrutinised.
My home is the home of the warriors,
In it the messages are received,
Acting with actual troops called children.
It is the memory of their well-being,
Their selling is the selling of the soul.
My mothers are in the lane of wonder,
Yet the messages are deceiving nobody.
The factory of facts is building a dream
Full of itself, fulfilling the dreams of drama,
Like the enemy within, and without.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Stress! ! With the muse of the parents of the world. Thanks for sharing.