Toilsome exercise began sympathizing with masses,
The work raised itself, belonging to our abacuses.
The joy of our times touches on beautiful palpitations;
Whittle away the clocks. Whittle away the hours and agitations.
Our combustible material reasoned out as awesome material
For the work forwards, the function of our cereal.
Fast and slow came the weather and temperateness,
A bona fide action arose for the improvement and accurateness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Time and money are like leg irons