The mist hangs in the trees on mornings like these
Whilst emperors reign and thieves are hanged
And envious eyes watch empty thrones while cemeteries gnaw on duchesses' bones
While children feast on ache of hunger, 'Not pancakes again! ' the executive thunders.
And the earth turns again, and what will be now has evermore been
The rising sun dimmed by the tree-clinging mist on any given day- or none like this.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem