Let us hope the old days have eroded
The days of some age,
But at home a present sadly enters
The house called happiness.
In the confusion of the moment,
Stairs are satanic mild sways
That hide hearts from themselves,
So that gifts are like presents,
Some say thoughts are lessened
And evil engages the soul for whispers.
Let us hope and hide, the cold to hold
And the strong, long guide of our days.
Nights are like lies of the stone,
It shatters the faulty behaviour,
The stone is itself shattered.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem