Enter the arena with sword and might,
In the deeds there are some who have fountains
Of wisdom, as the real hatred of some
Seem to be for the undertakers of funerals.
Those with pristine hearts call it glass,
Can they still breath so clearly as fire?
The fires are first and second
With thirsty nature, and always the hurt
Overtakes the fountain-growers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem