O son! do not stride forth nor cast away
The words of plague upon the wildest road,
Thy cry is weak in pitch to shake his mind,
His shout will find thee when thou cry at bend,
Thy cry doth shake my soul, his trembling might,
Be at thy home and lift thy hands in pray,
Remorse before Him, for thy ship of dreams
No wrecks by tempests wrought through deep intrigue
By false foes made, this ship is sunk by fate
Of deeds thou wrought and acts that fixed remain
Within the darkest room of deep-set thought.
(21 Jan,2016)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem