Name's flame fame: empty echo on Time's breeze
sent sixty springs, rings eighty if it please,
before misfortune, accident, disease,
ushers in rushed final hush, prompt fees,
invoiced by Dr. Death. No remedies
exist. One certainty: uncertain_tease.
Ephemeris spins silk trap. By degrees
spider, Time sucks substance, source. Who sees
in dreams Truth linking night and day? Who'd seize
on dreams which dreams remain? What verities
may men-mice from life's cheese release? What ease?
If we're not cobweb puppets what's soul's reason?
if acts prove vain, may thoughts move vainer treason?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem