If my body wasn't set on its decay
You would not love me with a measured love.
If my voice did not linger in the air
And follow the dead eagles to their rest
You would not hear my cello in the tomb
Built brick on brick by all you could remember.
If my love for you had eyes and ears
No light could glimpse our desolation now
Where, in the Rose, the rose has earned its power.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem