Others make verses of grace.
Mine are all muscle and sinew.
Others can picture your face.
But I all the tumult within you.
Others can give you delight,
And delight I confess is worth giving.
But my songs must tickle and bite
And burn with the ardor of living
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Excellent. We are living in fortunate times when we can read at the touch of a button such great writings as this! I cannot argue with his argument- his love is deep and true.