Hold your grief:
this pull of sorrow must be reined -
if this winnowing wind not meaningless
we should fly our mourning bird free...
down the lane,
he who stands with sad feet, his brain
roofed with brown shades of dolour-
one solitary grief,
like a rife corn it smells,
a fine meal for thousands pests of vindiction...
you bereft, may grow an assassin-
hide your dagger safe:
let's talk each other and all-
this rod, my emblem rod is
vested with necessary loads of life-
share your shoulder to place a little of it-
let the cumbrous weight of your labour
spreads full over red soil of my blood-
let's our sweat drip down under a true sun,
busy hands cannot grip mournful flowers...
in true deep toil let's earn true ennui
and sleep truly ever
and wake up
in fresh dew belief-
sunrises are always within
suns are ardently happy...
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I would like to translate this poem