Paradise is in the heart, it is the house of the house,
We are in peace with the hands of the very heart;
My loves and likes think along the same regions and legions,
A lesion of the brain is a leisure of the mind, as
Regnal flight is a solution for the kings and queens.
Paradise is in the head of the prophetic men who utter
Prayers for the lame and weak, whose hearts are meaningful,
Loves and likes encompass the parallel light, the light
Of supplications born by men who see the powerful night,
As days pass, as days part, as days of the righteous men.
Paradise is in the hearts of messengers who forsake their children,
For never does ruin touch, nor does effort waste, nor does effect
Take place on the souls of the real, the doors of the dreaded,
Nor the fight of the beloved, nor the fasting of the poor;
We are in paradise if our beating hearts lust for the divine effort.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem