My, your God corrects me, I stand corrected.
Thine anger was permitted by he,
in me to burn, by it thus am I healed.
And thus the anger which burns by he, is in thee.
Does it naught, come forth, poured hence, from me?
Whether or not mine, by thy cup is his medicine.
Abundance is thine, by his staff, it is good, and it is.
Whether or not or it is, to he it is fragile, it is strong.
Lord, be it thine hand, it is good.
Where shalt himself, I am, by he,
so he chooses, there goes you.
And I thus trust, who I am, am I not, thus bound?
There is wisdom and discernment.
Thus is a city of Thine, his knowledge.
I am, who I am, and not what I am,
and am I thus, by he, I am healed.
I see justis wide the sea,
and just because of he, who I am, feel it's breeze.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem