A righteous man involves himself in politics,
The rare delights are shared by the one who loves.
The gear of the gestures creeps in too late,
Fixing the abode, surrendering to doom and gloom.
My man is innocent, he concocts the puzzling mood,
So hatred resides in its bed, to stagnate and die.
One loves him day after day, to feed the glow of warm
Summer, and cold winter, and beauteous spring.
The autumn showers subjugate the manliness,
It rains due to poor health, and that is a blessing.
The illness is saved eventually, due to godly takeover,
The chariot is conquered, a real farce is the fact.
Why do words object to the praises of this lord?
When do we visualise the brightness of a man such as he?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem