And he, the warrior of time,
Lives exiled in the winter, doth his spirit shines in April's prime,
Hereunder, burdened with wrinkling scales as armor
Seest life as a battle yet not won and victory yet not harbored.
Yet and yet and yet means yet of another doth to fallow,
If he's head's had had spades of sarrow lended for a marrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem