The parental dismay pities,
The identity whereabouts,
The existential beguiles,
Torment the psychic retreat ,
And the heaps of compromises,
Shroud the corpses of conscience.
The dream of pigeon's nest,
Waits in withering heath,
And the garland-glory of a mistress,
Changes paper-flower in red-light heats.
The shadowy residue of erosive hope,
Pricks like the wasted youth in Fate's jail,
And surely in blind desert, will come the last mail.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
blind desert, I like it, thanks. I invite you to read my poems and comment.