the night is silent death
no angel stirs the trees
no whispers from the gods
to put my soul at ease
why must the night withhold
the peace of gentle sleep
with too much time to think
the shadows seem to creep
my fear leaks from the cracks
beneath a fractured dream
and flows across my room
like ghostly toxic steam
and yet I seem inspired
and shake my fist at death
resolved to fight the night
until my final breath
Though illness weakens the body the power of the spirit resolves to fight on through all adversity. the night is silent death no angel stirs the trees no whispers from the gods to put my soul at ease A great opener to this poem!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This one here, dear Barry, is one of your greatest perceptions, expressing human soul's feelings in front of the question it only between all living creatures faces: the consciousness of its limits, the consciousness that it fades out someday.This exactly knowledge is the achievement of the human race: to know. The most tragic knowledge of all, to percept that there is a limit in this very procedure of knowledge: its own death, or better the consciousness of its not permanent existence.On this very consciousness was based man's creativiness which created the world we know, his own world, and the world of his art is the greatest.Your poem here testifies how great is this world of the Knowledge achieved by its Fight against this very consciousness of his coming Flight.I'll try to trnaslate it by the hope that in my language could be equally great.
I always appreciate it when you translate any of my poems Dimitrios. When I attempt a serious poem, it aims at something universal. Lately my preoccupation is death though I really have not been told when. I feel it, I see it in my MRI scans like death growing. I think most of us have many doubts, questions, regrets, as well as happy memories. I try to cover the range. Again, thanks for the kind comments always and for the translations.