Ruck lives on a timeworn lodge of slush roof covering a hot sun shadow, and only muck is the bottom on dark of midnight epochs.
It is all gloomy into the havoc inside the jungle of wild creatures are hunting; and the ice has swarmed at the door of hunger storm has hit the earth merciless.
Well, there is a tacky skin dwells on dropped leaves of winter harvest, in a hovel there is so bleak and brazen actions occurrence in their daily lives, consistence the poverty; people have not a chew of food to survival to win their core with letter.
Every spirit is born where it's meant to be for the change into the fullest space for the most in need, thorough planet is digging up from well scale of foulness; either soul is born beyond knowledge defines what a mankind life is fitness, by rock and honor.
Could be imagined your whole lives are invaluable, the merriest to be born, is that of a needy folk detects the treasures of everything; others are born into all opulence, have no true sight of abundance.
The people are shouting for bite dried yummy taste will never scatter away, while numerous needy nations knowing here and there are hurting daily life.
Lying dumb its silks, and bluffers sip their booze on a bunch of distress clans who run across the bitter tea; wherever were born happy wide awake.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem