Once a flourishing flame,
it flickers and ebbs in the darkness of despair;
with nothing left to give
it simply burns out.
Its smoke trail leaves a heavy stench
bad as death when the soul stops fighting.
No wax, no wick, no more will to go on;
it faints dead away
unable to bring light to another day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem