Here they are - pale sounds
Of primeval montane grounds...
Young lady's hands which are pale,
Pale, forgotten tales...
She Slowly went from the vesper,
Full of the last day's ideas...
Near the evening belfry
White towers turned into tears...
Chalky towers have sailed,
Sky burns at the dawn.
Slumber of song has been failed -
Flowers awoken the song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem