If you understand me, duty calls,
And it trains you in arts of thinking thin;
The language of the soul is fast and warm,
It slithers in the crevices, it dives into beaches.
The language of the fall, is like the climb,
But beauty bespoke in ways that are thin.
It trains you in the arts of law, and commodities;
But nature is the real beauty of the world.
It has a language of the creatures, fearless
Humans, and reptiles so gruesome to war,
That in some soul there is a disease;
War is a posture of the wicked in the world.
It has a skill with words and war,
The parallel worlds will develop the wars
So battles become the particles of speech,
The atoms of duty, the concrete past.
Plan those wars, plan without paper,
But never does the word touch the sword.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem