Not kin to the man of present
To the shoes of his walk
The juice of guiltUnknown to him now and forevermore
Will be discovered not
The glee of youth
For as the mind sharpens
Through battles with sharper swords
The naive lad in eagerness
Hopeful of the world
Loses the guilt from his satchel
In the forest of years
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem