Viewed from a distant vantage
I appear as a cross with arms outstretched;
As I stayed on my knees long enduring,
It seems that I am kissing God’s feet.
Like an organ in a church,
Praying amid extreme sorrows,
Is the candle flame of my life
Keeping vigil upon my tomb.
At my feet is a spring
That sobs all day and all night;
Upon my branches lie
The nests of love-birds.
By the sparkling of that spring
You’d think of flowing tears bubbling;
And the Moon that seems to be praying
Greets me with a pale smile.
The bells tolling the vespers
Hint to me their wailing;
Birds on my branches are covered with leaves,
The spring at my feet has tears welling,
But look at my fate,
Dried-up, dying alone comforting myself.
I became the cross of the withered love,
And a watcher of tombs in the darkness.
All is ended! Night is a mantle of mourning
That I use to cover my face!
A fallen piece of wood am I, and prostate
Neither bird nor people find any pleasure.
And to think that in the days past
A tree I was of luxuriant and leafy growth;
Now my branches are crosses o’er graves,
My leaves made into wreaths on tombs!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem