Sip
In the beauty of the flowers
The night
Has endowed them with dews
His lasting dowers
See
Their eyes
Millions still weep
Still mourn the spirits of the
Night
The shadows grey
Over the green
A million eyes be seen.
And the dawn smiles not
And
The dawn mourns
The funeral cortege
Of last noble night
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is a tantalizing, mysterious poem which makes its setting vividly tactile and sensory but draws a veil over why the beautiful is so fragile and why natural things, capable of feeling, feel only sadness, like wounded human beings. Perhaps the flowers and other natural things endowed now with a kind of consciousness wish they could return to their past condition of oblivion, but first they must perform the rites of morning which offer only further immersion in sadness.