O consider the weight of innumerable
Dark centuries on the backs of the dead and
The living. Consider the distance between us
Now that the fragile flowers of love have withered.
Consider the plight of the artist or poet:
Who constantly pour out their dreams and visions in
A world of great indifference. They die a little
Each day. O they speak from the heart and bleed for it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem