Cold disappointments strangling the warm night:
A lone, lit candle plumb on th'window sill;
Upon my eyes, the heavy, seismic sight,
That never did forsake me, never will.
The night has been like a nest comatose,
With all the chirping, newborn lamentations
It does not notice; huffing like a nose,
As if it has no time for contemplations.
Let the bed perspire for now's the time-
The somber poppies shall ooze misery,
The paroxysmal perforations'll chime,
And the brain will commit fibbery;
For there can be no remedy of fate,
And even if there is, it is too late.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem