A mistake majestically springs to mind,
Divined by helpers, confined and solved;
My kind line confines me, bromine is around,
A little deadness suffices careering into the life.
Let the mid-wife be in strife, with wildness,
Without a pocket-knife, and let her see the pens.
Writing matches the reading, so does accosting,
And adhering to glue, we strive and acquaint.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem