I can imagine no river
flowing round the brim of hell,
and any valley
dolorous forever.
With small cantos
the long poem
plays
the enchanting flute of primal love
and inspires men
for the dream of existence.
Against the impediment
truth comes
wading through the waves.
How can a river flow
round the brim of hell
and
end in eternal slumber?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem