There seems to be an absolute ideal long lost by inscient Man;
A quenchless debt that ceaselessly steers all his fate-bound scions,
An insatiate debit yet unmet by each history's ill-cornered clan -
Often wholly unpaid, seldom a sliver settled by parodied minions.
It's utterly futile thus - for the nescient father to further sire
Hatchlings whose star kismet already clawed to a vapid end.
Too, toil's rarefied rations are but a bare bit this debt to retire;
Will their woes wane, wanton ways Wind's whims wittily wend?
Wiser how - if the boldest brutes must still bite the dust?
The truly wise unleash the sails and cruise before the gales
Upon the all-gloating Wind's long-wended courses accursed,
And breathe not a word of the mute Destiny's unspoken tales.
It's the uncertain detours that spans of mortal moles must take
That render meanly sweet the hourly-halting heirs' pre-iced cake;
For tough's the toil of the truant tot, testing's the turn of the uncompliant…
All wiser to play by the galled rules - a piteous pawn of an all-timing tyrant!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem