It is still
Time to laugh
When we labour
Like a donkey
When passion burns
Brightly only in our own heads
And the night goes on
Without sleep
We are derided-
Drib and drab achievers
Something, something.....warmers
When passion burns
And its cinder piles into gold
We are applauded
With accolades fit
Only for the king.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem