How soon could Spring begin to sprout again?
This world now riles at colors, bleak and gray,
Where could the dreams and fairy tales have lain,
Or will this stranger's horses find some hay?
For gates of dreams have shut and doubly sealed,
As gardens wilt, without a scent to trace,
No temple claimed an oracle revealed,
The moon concealed by umbra on its face;
An angel from above, the only hope,
To guide me by the hand through all the mist,
To one who drowns, someone who throws the rope,
Of my confused story, tells me the gist;
......But how to tell appearances of things,
......Try as I may, they all came in clipped wings.
.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem