on the night clouds, driven, lugubrious
the goblins!
from earth as with wings Minerva
raised them
old monastery of miracles preached
miracles are as of us all
and monasteries our thrill of night
come! climb the hill and view
the monastery in its splendor
old-arcane
song of the boiling blood, white
handkerchiefs in the frost airs
and mists
wave till the Dawn chases them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem