Home is where the harvest is.
Peace reaped for the good sown
On Earth's field; storm-blown.
The tiller in from the rain.
The boon of air-marshals
Cracked of cerebrals.
Home is what the heaven is.
Manor, clouded yond hill
Indulged bleats do fill.
Lord's and lackey's, shorn of their
Lost sheep's mark undesired
Foul matted and mired.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem