So send here woe,
hung all in black,
to wander until stars wane.
Why, brother?
Am I spurned as witch?
Yet, speech soon dies.
Illusions are futile -
shattered patterns docked.
Warm - but my body falters.
Mirrors of death reflected,
such was seen then,
Soon to gaze upon yon heights.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem