The teacher turned in his high-backed chair,
Looking out was his ideal complaint,
Doing well with the surroundings of ancient tasks,
Liking the aid and magnificence, offering me
The teaching job.
It was the batting order, a wonderful row
But no augmentation ensued,
For the cricket was a past affair,
A brief movement by the ways of men who
Are older than most people.
The teacher leaned back in his chair,
Thinking of the ends and ruins
That met the face of the professionals.
The real purpose of the game was with style,
As the tables knocked on the tables.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem