Let nobody hear my praise for the one soldier of words,
Innocent and bleeding, he is stability and peace again.
Let this letter reach him while I am dead in the hearts of many,
Death is the comfort of my life, death is the teller of this world.
Lying is not comfortable in the light of words told to the crowd,
Words are like the enemy barging into the shoulder with knives.
My acts are like the words of the century, action is better than life,
For life goes to worry, and life is still happy in the battle of heights.
The swordplay is expert and blood is dripping from blades of blessing,
My combat is my comma, my action is my redress, and the lost chapter
Unwinds this time in the month and year, folding the paper together,
Like the books of the libraries of old life, the death of this book.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem