Wisdom they call it: that drying
Of fonts of feelings, and more,
That dying of heart, tender heart,
Of knowing but feeling no more.
My people left, left pangs behind,
Yet pangs of pain, no more for me.
That enemy mortal of tender heart,
Midas with stone touch, came to me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem