Fantasy survives a millennium of treatises on maturity and
realizing realities.
It survives it all with good grace and coquettish style.
Throughout the decades, imagination fulfills many an hour
in joyful bliss.
Many times, books, ideas, inventions, are created from this
so-called waste of time.
When it is brought right to the core and becomes technical in
nature, doesn't life need the imagination of many brilliant
people in order to progress?
And didn't the imagination of someone long ago become enkindled
with the idea of education?
Now that learning has progressed so far, do knowledgeable people
feel the need to disregard imagination and day-dreaming?
How far could the world have progressed with the dull-witted
education of unimaginative men?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem