Of the sound of sickly crickets.
At the mid of the night
O yea cruel sun
Where shall you be?
At the comfort of your habitat..
Maybe shining to the angels
Or perhaps walking with the Deity.
Down here, I shall be composing an unsung tone
My hair shall have turned grey
My bones exhausted
And when you shall in the morning return....
When behind the eastern rocks you rise
O you early morning sun
At the crack of dawn I shall have sung!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem