the night walked in its tunica
dark black funereal staid
like an exiled king by sorrow spent
the night walked in its tunica
over Hastings Gardens:
still the trees without a rustle stood.
The night in its tunica walked
They saw it on the bastions at mid-night
Tiptoeing helter-skelter directionless
And sneaking thief-like. At Dawn
They found its suicide, poor thing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem