To be sad, to sigh, be sad
Funereal, funereal, funereal.
Black clouds soaring, white
Heavens instead of blue-azure
Hanging from heavens candelabra
And censers of incense suspended.
The yawning-yellow mouths of
Ghosts and shrouds hidden in crevices
And the Dawn, Dawn riding on the
Waters of old Valletta, with bent head.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem