The will of the fountain is like cloth furled,
My faith earns from the Briton, and is like cloth furled.
My button is clenched with anger and mood,
My asking is the fault of a bulletin, like cloth furled.
This day lightens the stomach so gainful,
The light fights its way with our chieftain, with cloth furled.
The clapping is churned, the chess is taught,
But strategy joins to that to enlighten, cloth has been furled.
The east and west, the north and south, feel little,
Because the mainframes of the curtain have cloth to be furled.
Let intelligent men see my poetry in the light of strangers,
To be disheartened is to enjoin the gotten, with cloth unfurled.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem