Toils and brawls hit hard herebelow
Till poetry and its bliss are forgotten;
Till the joys of rhyme totter battered
By thrusts of a world foul and rotten.
But when the last of blows
The versifier's nose all wet
Has left in crimson sutures,
This quill shall scribble yet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem