There is a green hill by the sheer
and final choice that overlooks
assaulting age and edges near;
a certain view I’m tending to.
The codes are old that predispose
a man to think of bargains struck,
of honour lost, one deal to close
a story running out of luck,
but not of hope for some years yet,
though dragging out I couldn’t stand,
beyond that testing chance beset
when I at last forsake your hand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem