at point of age
the fires on the bronze
monument of time
they slowed
went down
grew dim
creaked yet
dim not spent.
we
too
here
the pines wither
slow
and lament not
our slow rate
is of centuries
but
then
we pain for centuries
our suffering
centuries last
and pain for
centuries.
Time hiding behind
trees and shapes
and figures and
old mists
always the height
to leap arises
with smile cool and
frigid
cruel smile of cruel Time
Life
hiding behind a hedge
with scared eyes and
sad face
sees.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem