I am dreaming of a cure,
Middle way, in the very middle.
My ailment is recognised by some,
Before abolition of the laws.
My path ends with excellence,
Its jaws encapsulate the skull,
And learned men earn flaws
From their device and searching.
The doctors are the masters,
Overflowing love conquers the
Gesture of a thousand years,
That many spill into stomachs of glue.
I am defeated by you, my sins are small,
Yet letters abide in the heavens,
Calling my illness a disease of righteous
Men who love the lives of others.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem