We stay in the pleasure of the light,
Offering peace to an expanse of sayings,
Then light unfurls like a scroll of life,
Watching the deities with a scary line.
Clever lines are due to your soul,
Slowly the caresses of the words are yours,
Then the forehead sinks and swims,
With wrinkled harmony as much as you.
We say liking you is like the folding of skin,
Yet the days are exasperated by your day,
Feeding the mothers with property,
And cancelling their woes with pride and dignity.
The offerings to the letter-writing are fond
Of your souls and ladies, who entertain,
Feeling like cats of the dogmas and rituals -
How fond are your souls in this deed?
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I would like to translate this poem