Two matters conceal one another,
The passing of the seasons is a factor;
There are faulty workers in this season of our
Making, the making is in the folly.
Two masters are debating as to their composition,
Their skills are markets of disapproval,
Feeding them is the job of the losers,
Who fence with each other on the swords.
Then wordy sums of money are like honey
That is gulped down with pride and relish,
The sweetness of sins confides in you
To see the exact number of words in the debate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem