Is asking for a complex thought
Whose flight of fancy
And exuberant words
Are demanding to fathom
Some inner tide.
Iron to the rust it turns
Flesh it to the clay it burns
Things are to discontinue one day
For the long and cold rest of endless sleep,
To raise back into life again,
His course of a creator deserving something
To bind a life to a life,
But as a misfit in the doldrums
He finds a person
To be: I.
Luster of his eyes now
Flicker away, for his comfort says
Had my devotion in return paid?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem