This poet soon becomes a still portrait
After his poem is recited from her heart
Still, because it's now being distilled to fit
Into the picture frame she's just constructed
And more than likely it has no resemblance at all to reality
Cause he is not even a beauty in real life
Even with all his bragging, his pathetic cries
For he might be more true to be compared to a beast
Did one witness his raging temper, his peak-high pride, his own stupidity?
Granted, there are some streaks of brilliancy, but he can't even spell rightly!
How can one now have pity or feeling sorry for this one-of-a-kind poet?
Presumptuous, contemptuous, ridiculous!
His soul is most of the times at lost
Like these verses which glide to nowhere
One should heed his message of love
But please ignore the fool who always thinks he's a sage
A sage on wooden stilt
But definitely not an English skilled poet
Far from it
You can tell him I say it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem