I heard so many voices, opening the door,
Father does not know who they are, so we ignore.
Their appearance mattered to the public,
As they pounced on the house, our home, what a gymnastic!
Under the roof, we delighted ourselves with the shared food,
The straightness of the corridor was clear, in our mood.
But homes filled the area of this country,
And our home was meant to be with pleasantry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem