I love the faces of people in triumph,
Trumpets blow to ride the falcons
Into skies of gold, golden skies are us.
I live along the periods of doubt
To suppress my dreams of taste,
Food concentrates its liquor in my puzzled
Mind. I do not know the tests of these
People.
Justice, despair,
Are worries of the soul
As the men of understanding concern
Themselves with desires and lusts
Of learning.
The courts are against the customs
And traditional desserts,
Foolish puddings blow apart
As just men preserve the jam
Inside the fellowship.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem