Night time has come and I am going out against.
Prohibition of the sounds death is before the knell
of the currants running past today.
Slow burning is the fire
the wind I hear the roaring crowd.
That the method of becoming comes before.
Heavily to her I return obtaining.
Upon the glassy plain and today her plowman,
and the leafy kiss is darkness to my world.
Now shining faintly I view new vision,
and all air which in silence the reigns I've grasp.
That lonely monotone if you exclude that where,
and drowsy inklings alleviates the distant cold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem