One slithers in bad luck on one day,
Underneath it all a person seems fit
To argue, fuss and try the basics of life,
Like the day and night, in races.
Offer to them colours of delight,
Lull the fighting of a year,
Understand them with distaste
So that history is unfurled
And the whole world can defy it.
My matter is with them
To understand their will
That they bespoke on their days
That were nights of displeasure.
One sleeps in continuity
Once the judging hour erodes
The basic design,
Death has asserted its role
Once death is certainly small.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem