We've found the pieces
Scattered on Scrabble
That must be put together.
But how It feels
To be humbled
Still always makes you wonder.
We plough the field,
And none grumbles
For being born among peasant.
We have no dream,
You may assume,
To sit among the scholars
And invent great machines
That will improve
What you called "the right standard".
The thinkers have misconceived
The assembled scrabble,
Which comes from lesser standard,
We set on fields
When growing food
Needed to build durable standards
By what we've seen,
What we knew;
And that we've proudly become.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem