The old tortoise farts again before his hailing hailers,
And its poignant smell nourishes our disgust
Should such silly sound ever from a father's cries?
So we are fatherless those in the Eastern hut.
.
Like airs from broken ballons we stray,
From emptiness we do our cradle installing
Working our nests and crest from pure clay
We do not wait for the rotten mannas' coming.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem