Although the tender light is fading fast;
And summer's hallowed flowers are dying;
Although the precious lark is descending;
And her sweetest songs are now in the past;
I sense subtle shades & colours of art.
I will gather in Time's golden harvest;
And circumspectly translate the secrets;
The eternal alphabets of the heart;
In the rusted, brownish autumn of life.
Quelled is the once furious, youthful rage;
Scent of burnt leaves; smoky regions of age;
Now crowd my fragile, dislocated mind.
I'll seek to craft a deeper consciousness.
For this is a season of stoic remembrance
Despite modernity's rank decadence.
I want to trace Nature's hidden circles;
Til I hear winter's frozen warnings;
When the life force & the senses are dimmed;
When Love's carousel turns with solemn hymns;
'Til the unknown, darker realms come calling.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem