Young, you waited, keen for the day
when all those foul, marauding crows on your wire
once and for good would flap away-
'them'- those dark obsessions of which you tire
leaving you time for things a bit more gainful:
calm days, done with concupiscence,
shed of obsession and disdainful,
now, of all its blandishments.
But, now, you scratch your head, stare
and wonder what skies they now soar-
remember how inspiring they were
ponder what the guiltless hours are for
and almost wish that they might come again,
bringing with them the snows of Antan.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem