Some thieves set fire to a poet's hut,
Everything is burnt to ashes;
Only the compass remains in the ashes.
The poet draws with the thorn-compass
Circle, radius, triangle, quadrilateral...!
Suddenly the robber beaten by the compass on his feet
- '' Uho-o, what a bad poet!
More stingy than a bee-
go away, go away - - ''
Said the thief.
The power of a poet can't be exhausted¬-
It is or not?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem