T.S.Eliot as a poet of the broken rhythms of life recreating from conversational everyday speech colloquial and ordinary and writing poetry, the poetry of the waste land, the hollow man waiting for a cloudburst and rainshower, ploughing the barren lands sterile and arid, the hollow man with the hollow and shallow thoughts of his and turning poetry into a pastiche of quotations, references and allusions.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem