How I sought sleep to ward off thoughts of you,
All rapping, tapping, my door while I toss,
Just like the raven of the Poet Poe,
Those thoughts imploring of Lenore, his loss;
The night had me, from cup of Absinth sip,
As though your kiss, left in the cup, has soured,
As though some sadness held me in its grip,
That all my mirth, by such sadness, devoured;
But when you called to kiss the cup anew,
No spirits filled it better to compare,
Could Dionysus have such wine to show,
If making it required pure hearts that care?
…….With many faults my door has erred before,
…….But opening, to let you leave, no more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem