Till all the stars burn out and I remain—
Rolling over the mountain—darkness' bane,
It will live in me, my friend Solitude,
As if my life did nothing but delude
Me in my paths. Whose grace is this that lies
Upon the pallor of my mind who cries,
Out of sour banishment from some deep glee,
Aloud of its own sorrows but can't flee.
What is this form of love that you bestow,
My dearest pal, O Solitude, and show
Your dark demeanor. Is this God's decree
To make me fly to Him in a foolish plea.
Perhaps the aspect of this grace is sad:
I am just one more melancholy lad.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem