There's no world as happy as a fantasy-
For a man to find himself in agony.
Though one may barely feed his hunger,
And quench her thirst after burning at Sun;
The fancy of her thoughts outwit the load
And his day dream concealed his sorrow.
The reality of life is so lamenting;
That though the finger of man aged-
He is never content, never ceased from toil
And her wants only gives birth to anxiety.
For a poor, fortune seems distance prevailing,
Yet his pure heart enrich health and joy;
But for the idle hands, every door is fold
And her covet for wealth bewitched her mind.
Hence, there's constant conflict within oneself-
Enduring to adapt the code of this untoward world,
And even fantasy forsake to uphold his grief
And her intimacy for fancy is bewildered.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem