Of all the plights that ensnared me, the Dungeon was the worst,
For so vile it was to rout those who to scale its walls durst.
Enchained was I within its darkness, with myriads along;
"Succumb, despair; turn glum, forbear! " was the fetters' song.
An ostensible thought: the only way out was the open top—
But these fateful odious walls would strive to you stop.
Even if you splinter the manacles of rigid popular views,
By walking down your own path, yenning to be a muse,
The bestial savage crude walls are bewitched with something unexplained
That would ensnarl anyone who climbed it, being callow and untrained.
For these walls of worldly wants and public expectations are life's trammels
Which cudgel you to forge ahead only through temporal, limitless channels.
I sought the ampler boundless canvas that stretched beyond,
So I broke my shackles and climbed the walls, but it finally upon me dawned.
A fool's errand it proved to be: as distant was liberty as before.
Once an expectation was fulfilled by me, the expectant walls heightened more and more.
No sooner had I accomplished a forced goal than another knocked on my door.
Was there no way to traverse these walls and ascend to gloriously soar?
This is the Dungeon of Life, the creational folly of the people galore,
Those who sprouted deific wings and escaped are now of the lore.
In past tense is this exposition, not without a reason though—
Festooned with hoary wings, fulgent in a divine glow,
I winged towards the cosmic welkin, free of tether:
And ever since been loving both the ether and nether!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem