The column, cut deep by the sword of a king
got a beautiful gift, the stone didn't possess:
so, when touched by the first shining rays of the spring
it was able to sing the forbidden distress.
And through ages and ages, its holy, long chord
playing in the aurora, with a sound loud and fair,
the inner destruction and the secret discord,
could be heard all the time spreading notes in the air.
To perform all the time at a moment precise,
it was mended one day by another great king.
Yet, since then, neither played nor was able to sing.
That's because had a soul the stone frigid as ice,
as long as it suffered and bitter tears shed.
But having no wound, the creature was dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem