I know you will think of me,
But in what sense, i dare not think.
For you, most folly had been my choice.
Perhaps, you will laugh when you think of this
And tell my tales to your sons.
A tranquile triumph of your youth.
But never-the-less, i bear my consolation in this
You will think of me in whatever way.
Beware then now my dear friend,
I may not hold you generously so.
I wish above all things,
To hold you nearer than anything
But it is not in me to mourn my loss,
For if you are gone, forever you are lost.
I will not think of you.
All that is you is dead to me
And buried with the memory of every loss.
This my friend, is no contempt,
For i do not count my loss
And you my dear, are the greatest of all.
Believe me dear friend,
My sadness is grave,
That you should be lost to me too soon,
And the substance of this fate,
A simple out come of your deed.
It is sad that you are dead,
And like all things lost to me,
I must bury you, my lost friend.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem