When the Bards of old writ down their sweet rhyme
That unwritten code became a dream quest
Which each sought to outwit and cube the rest.
Unlimited in limits they could time
And all so sure of triumph they made sound
A muse with rhythm of lips kiss on kiss,
To read aloud to themselves god-like bliss,
As one pen after another would crown.
Zealous of their words, wiser than a scribe,
Yet blind to selflessness, as a mere slave,
To force by thought, beyond lesser lines tribe,
A miracle of wit so one might rave
Of immortality, on finite page,
Within common man, throughout unknown age.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem