The rain, she calls like the tears of the man of timely sand
who begs in earnest for my unattainable slumber
in hopes that, should I dream at all,
such might be of her for whom my beaten heart longs.
True, I speak in stricken love, and
true, I dream things that ne’er shall be,
but my ambition is Icarean
though the truth be not of dreams.
I pray thee, titan of time,
I beg thee, sultan of sleep,
make my dreams reality
that all might be as it seems.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem