He cannot raise a foot
To put it down again
And not suspend, as in mid-sentence
The question of its gain.
Behind him lay countless
Of bright vistas, blackened
Having, like each morning, been spurred on
By only what has slackened.
Like the ruins, they lie
Of successive kingdoms
Hope-built hours, ruled over by
A dynasty of phantoms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem