I am a poet,
Of the rich and the poor,
Try to read the feelings,
And with the aid of human alphabets, paint.
I ask myself at this moment with grave emotion,
Can a poem ever be finished?
The answer ‘NO' is echoed from within,
Only precious ash is left after desertion.
Before penning a poem I thought of Baudelaire and rose,
To 'always be a poet, even in prose'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem