Death is nearer than deaths of the menacing furies,
Standing inside the circle of dishonour is a spirit
Who mimics the brightness of lamps and lanterns.
Death straps itself to the bulging brain of beautiful beings,
The death is near, the life is geared for more action,
But dying is no subject-matter for the dead.
Let the dying be sick, the living be timid, and the livid be rich,
For most people are near popes of the highest creation,
Busts of their personalities are on show in the gallery.
May death desire a page for the innocent beings of bursting
Brittle books, voluminous works of the varieties that reside
Inside the noble souls that strangely differ and design.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem