Open this book after closing it,
A page from a crafty pen is written;
The ink and sheets of paper stay together,
A dagger can not sigh on the word.
The book jests like a scrub and wash,
Cleaning the mind so offered,
The minds themselves exit the shrine,
Worship causes us to listen, to shatter.
This volume concerns us with its joy
And builds into a sandwich called knowledge.
We are offended by readers who just stare,
As they glare at the pages with triumph.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem