There was, yes, once upon a time
a hermit, who, with cause unknown,
had left society to climb
down from the ladder on his own.
He had decided that he could
not tolerate their dusty rules,
and that he, therefore, rather would
live seperate from those fools.
He built his cabin in the centre
of thickest brush and nasty thistles.
Remained the only one to enter,
it was his home of bells and whistles.
A stove, a bed, a chair and table.
Two pots, a cup, a small bookshelf.
That's what he wanted, to be able
to live and talk just with himself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem