We dress in an attire so perfect,
That skin is perfect as perfect can read,
And the boundary I cross is beauty,
For beauty has an another author.
I live in sleep, in worry and too much tennis
Of thoughts, of gestures and skin.
The clothes I wear are even there for me,
Whereas he lived as a beggar like beauty.
One cannot find the country of ugliness,
In the safe region was a planet of murder,
When skins and dresses were red and brown
And the theft of an appearance and feeling was resented.
You have the essential quality of a human being,
For all time, your nation has complete control over you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem