The jeers and crits are barbed,
Wounding my inner man.
The snarl of those without sensitivity,
Leaving the bruised soul scorned.
My only escape is with th'queath,
Yielding my soul to its lead.
Restored from my pain with each stroke,
Until the next scorn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Without sensitivity with the ways of life. Nice work.