Through the might that shields,
Yet a day is seen,
When no knee's plea is head,
No eyes wail is seen,
No conscience examined,
But only the smelling aroma
Of bitter sweet melt.
In the target looms of the day,
Webs but no circumstance saved.
Undulating in rhythm,
And yet shall find both,
Though seperation be not by face,
But by collective seiving,
All pure and blot.
Lo, be one in between,
Shall take no favour before hands,
No suit lies of tongues.
No somersaults of suaves,
Nor gifts from both;
Except upon self account
And true juxtification.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem