Myth has it that the riches of the rich are good for all the people
And such a fable has got so many performances that it’s easy
To be swayed into thinking that it’s just the truth.
But when I see the eyes of the poor, aloof in their bare poverty,
And I compare their gazes with the personal greed and moral
Shamelessness of most of the rich, I feel disgust rise inside my soul
And I feel I share the closest brotherhood with the poorest of the poor.
Will I ever describe all this? Maybe I do, but you have to listen to me:
Don’t chase me away like ash carried off by the wind.
For this, as a novel bard, like a departing boat I’ll go
Crossing bridge after bridge, wiping away a few burning tears while
Conjuring up the face I had when I first came up.
Can you hear? Like messengers from too far away
Words wax and wane, telling of an unfair and meaningless world,
Revealing uncanny private realities and making all my fears naked.
Novel bard, I’ll sing about life, but
Only to realize I don’t know what it means to actually save
This present time and any possible future.
Because the world has no more miracles to show —And it represents
The most painful betrayal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem