Death is, but the dream,
When eyes grow dim
From watching the poise moon
Crawl slowly across the blue in bloom
To the hiding
As be it's biding;
Isolating the sage
For incandescent sunrise page
That unveil thorny roses' breast
Long nurtured into lush-nest
By night's secret fingers.
Death, is another phase
When faint face
Draws the curtain of drowsiness-
Inspired by mortals shadowy business:
When feet grow feeble,
And heart beat dwindle
And need be, retire
For a new dawn to acquire;
A glade,
Where time's impregnable shackle
And prison wall expire;
A passage upon time's existence into it's extinction-;
The perpetual pause of her tenure
And rebirth of new chorus and dawns
Where the shell of decay, decay.
Death is the fist that strangles death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem