Her eyes are staring into your head,
See it this time, your work of beholding is gone!
I am discouraged, by the infants and children of the world,
For what we meet on this day is an abusing venom.
My letter is written of an ugly ritual,
The time of itself is short but long, old and strange is the ritual.
May eyes of the sort bedazzle me more than my children,
They are mere infants, not only mere mortals,
But I have averted my eyes before time is up,
And the headache and pangs have disappeared resentfully.
My eyes are so normal, but my children are not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem