To make money please decide the question and answer;
Forming this requires patience, I dissolve like an ogre.
Towards a star that bled, I store the stones my mother owned
Which gracefully abide in my tongue, itself the one moaned.
Open a gate to deliver the stone too sacred
My gates are now closed to any expected.
I lose but own, and I make money so long,
That tears run down the cheeks of song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem