Poetry is the 'Forest of Arden'.
A dream land that hollers ' Eureka'.
A bee-hive that never goes dry.
A complex cobweb fashioned by intricate impulses.
A Belgium mirror that reflects keen intuition.
The queen of all fine arts with a revolving hallowed orb.
Poetry is placid sedatives for revelers who make whoopee.
A fair ground for gypsy thrill of inexplicable excitement.
Poetry is very concrete with abstract soul.
A kind ventilator of claustrophobic minds.
Manna for the mystics and ambrosial fluid
to the eternal thirsty sages and hermits.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem