Poverty is hideous and nevermore, its hand creeps
Into the heart of the body that you possess,
Riches bitterly combats your proclamations,
Rich men starve at the feet of their kindred,
But you are awakened by the songs of the birds,
As poetry says power is better than poverty.
Your throat is hunting the words for a poor man,
His rich life vanished, forced by chances and gambling,
Then his wooden crown crushed his head like a turban
Surrounding the face, offering a fearsome remedy.
Your poverty is stricter than the feet you walk with
And you shudder at the beasts depriving the pathway.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem