The morning seeks the rose,
And gets fermented with fragrance,
The noon with its heat, hides in retreat,
The twilight, fears the night, for cold bed,
The rose now is stale, it slips out of head.
The blind night, needs feast,
With fuel to its hungry pyre,
The dropping and the chaffy staff,
Washed away from life’s lyre.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem