When looking up at such expanse to see,
To where birds soar and re-assuredly fly,
Much like my thoughts, so boundless and so free,
That hard I try, they still exceed the sky;
This earthen frame designed for levels, low,
Compost of dust which watered will be clay,
If deemed divine, this, I yet have to know:
Fate can be better, more than where I lay;
But forced by habit to the lowly ground,
An alien to high perches and great heights,
Still, Heaven may be down here to be found,
Though yet obscured among the many sights;
.......Like diamond, buried deep beneath the dirt,
.......Joy to the finder, to losers, the hurt.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This earthen frame designed for levels, low, Compost of dust which watered will be clay, Great lines! ! ........ Made of clay and shall return to clay! !