March along time to eradicate the one,
Forcing us into stronger ties, more lies;
This pit of dreams forbids us to mutter,
To utterances of the last sort we prize.
Many folds of paper occur, before the one,
This letter is open now in his hands.
The less a man occupies the spirit
The more his accusations are wrong.
Marching is only walking faster for some,
Yet they loath the one, the one they loath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem