At my gaze no longer laughs the rose,
At the music of my words no longer blossoms forth the flowers
What is the use of going to the fair
With the garland of the withered smile?
Dose the dark night amaze her disheveled hair
Without looking at the moon for a while?
The southern wind brings the springs yet
But in the garden the nightingale sings no more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem