The art of the word yields little fruit when it's first conceived;
It must take root and grow in passionate minds if ever to be received.
A craft much learned of sadness from this world we’re in,
As we suffer right along until our solemn end.
Heroes of a future day but rarely of our own.
Most to be remembered only by ink and bone.
Our souls fulfilled when our words echo from the page.
And so we are merely losers until another Age.
~Arelo
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I disagree. My country has/have had successful Chief Ministers, Prime Ministers, Presidents, Scientists etc who were all Poets.