The waters of the pleasant flows
Murmur old forgotten tales.
Here was a jungle before the populace.
So I have heard the people say.
There was a city of décor, fashion.
Time, alas, has left no sign.
I am the heart from the School of Sorrow
Whom for centuries bliss will mourn.
Imagination has often sighted
What Reason calls the Boundless.
Often, sitting deep in thought
I set up delightful fancies.
Words change their meanings
In the crowded pangs of creation.
O the bleak expanse of Chance,
Can there be a Second to my dreams?
Under the black drapes of the eve
Who is mourned by the pouring brooks?
Wherefrom do the beams descend?
To where do steps of stars lead?
A gale blows from the mountains.
Autumn leaves swirl away.
Beneath the bustle of the new age
Old echoes are buried.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem