Hearts have a success on their thieving selves,
Like an egg of my soul, and infinite slaves,
Their two ghosts are mere echoes on the youth,
On the weirdness I say it is foul.
Hearts have a centre of slavery,
Around them stands a throat
As far as the eyes of the heart.
Bring your hearts to this place of honour,
When or where I can not tell.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem