I have gone through books
More than the number of hairs
One grows on his or her head
And I am too proud to be called learned
Yet in learning too I find blemishes
Firstly, I will never be chosen
A prophet to lead you all,
Even if, God ever wishes
Out of fear that I could rewrite
And for our own convenience
His version i would manipulate
Next, I lose my flower like innocence
As my logic and reason are sharpen
No more I take any desperate step
Meticulously now I calculate loss and gain
Before I fall in love with you again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem