'Heedless of the mow the corn is left to grow
And the vine all summer long drinks the dew
oblivious of the press, and I
Like them young and like them fair,
But that my days are worn with care,
do not want to die.'
'Only an old stoic is indifferent to death-
Me, I weep and hope, start and catch my breath
if only a mouse stirs.
Life is no less to cherish than regret
And sickened, we must not forget
how sweet its honey was.
'In my heart of hearts I still maintain
Bars of iron powerless to detain
One whom hope has given wings.
Slipping the cruel tangle of the fowler's snare
Wildly alive, to fields of air
Philomel soars and sings.'
'But what if I must die? I shall not fear
Or lose one moment's sleep or shed a tear
or crack beneath a jibe;
My patience in that vile place
will cause the eyes in every stricken face
to blaze with pride.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem