There's a nerve twitch between thought and deed:
and between what is and what is to become.
Yet I see the going down of the sun
work to itself the wanton deeds of principle.
I would like a fixed path as the sun.
I would like the luxury of a tyrant rule.
There's something twists my lips to a sneer
and hardens my twin eyes to agates.
I fling offence at gaiety and break
down the sweet gentility of song.
Oh, who will teach me the rule? A slave
I would be. My freedom wants a yoke.
And my soul wants the steady certain ease
of a lifetime of servitude and hard labour.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem