And though the pitcher is not broke
Its heart is broke
And still the song that rose and sung
And in the dust the lyre lies.
The chords are torn and broken
And if
Some-day some hand the lyre strings
Its silence it will break with echoes hoarse
Then better lie the lyre silent here
Where dust and ages mate:
Torn are the chords and broken
And hoarse the echoes are and raw.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem