To love something praises me after some time,
I see a value in the course of travels and deeds;
But weeping stunts the growth of loving hearts,
Tears have to feed high walls and living fears.
I set my mysterious hair, I send the polite blessing,
And silently wend my way to the bedroom of peace;
Openly the fault has been trivial, like a lie of smallness,
Yet the lesser men strip us of concerns and tears.
The chimneys of the winds and rain are outside,
And we are also exterior happiness,
When words fail internally and words fail,
Falling with mighty sights on the depraved ones.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem