Call us crazy, call us careworn,
Call us wild oats, wildly grown corn,
We sure are a crop so rare born.
People may have their pats
In dogs and birds and cats,
We've obsessions as pats.
Leaving all warnings of the dead wood,
Forgetting all lessons of the childhood,
Locking up our fears in a vault for good,
Hanging upside down possible defeat
In its own dungeons, darkness to greet,
Set out are we on sojourn, sun to beat.
Assuming that the sun forgets to rise,
Too tired, or frightened once more to arise,
We set out in competition to size.
And so resolving to make our own sun
Until comes to conclude our obsession,
We set out to rule in our own heaven.
As if for hundred thousand years to come
Radiant shall we reign in our kingdom,
Our own music shall we compose and hum.
As if gathered have we our youth for good,
Tying up success on our headstrong hood,
We have the tail of our tale thrown for good.
Thrown under deepest cavity so bad,
And thinking no more of our crazy fad,
We shall pursue our obsession so mad.
So brightly shines our courage, so our grit,
So buried be our concern in a pit,
Hardly ever can we recognise it.
Scorched have we the forests of confusion
And so much boiling blood within does run,
That ever since we have this obsession
As our pat that life runs errands for us,
The five elements forming a nexus,
O to bring success whence is our locus.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem