Oh, how some poets have suffered in life!
In trying to eke their just livelihood;
To most, their most intimate friend was strife;
Orphaned and desperate right from childhood.
Oh, how they had run from pillar to post!
Doing odd jobs and working through the night;
Poverty remained forever a ghost;
For long years, denied were they of limelight.
Much vexed, some gave in to many a vice,
To taste an iota of so-called joy!
Their poems great offered others advice;
Alas! they remained an ill-fated toy.
Could not the Maker protect them from strife?
Perhaps, they all await a better life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem