Throw out low crooks and their spooks
From a life of strife
Pain in vain and books
Playing a funeral fife.
Throw out clouts that tout
Bad rubbish
In your life and cast doubt
On intentions and tensions that won't finish.
Throw out characters and fetters
Holding old
Utter matters, tatters and letters
At ransom in the cold.
Throw out rows
Teeming with insanity and vanity
That grows
In proportion to hustlers of humility.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem