Todos os lucros desaparecem: o ganho da facilidade, a soma hoarded, secreta; E agora dgitos grim do retorno velho da dor maca acima de nosso repouso.
Ns caamos a causa da runa, adicionamos, subtramos, e pomo-nos no penhor; Para todo nosso riscar na almofada, ns no podemos seguir o erro para baixo.
O que ns estamos procurando um one-way do fare, uma possibilidade ser seguro: A falta que nos mantem o que ns somos, a moeda de um centavo que usurps os pobres.
Volunteers needed to translate poetry into different languages. Please help us correct the translation of these poems. We currently have 79,663 translations and are trying to create the largest and most accurate database of world poetry translations. We have started with machine translations which are very inaccurate. Please translate your favorite poem on this site. You will be given credit for your translation and a link to your site if desired. COPYRIGHT NOTICE: These poems have been gathered and submitted by many of people, and from many sources. Most have no copyright. However, some may may have copyrights. We have tried to collect poems that appear on many external sites where the author seems to want to disseminate. If you are an author and do not want your poetry translated into other languages then send a removal request and it will be promptly removed.
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