One has landforms extending above the acres,
With accusations of horror my hills are like colours,
Green is his colour offered over, his pride is through,
And systems of pleasure do not do, for proud are men,
Their living and dying is for themselves,
Their courses of study never fail,
And hills with summits shall arrive
On the heavenly hour, on minute after minute
The climb is heavy and worn with roots called boots of glory.
Why do slopes overpower the meek, and the glory is why so big?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem