On limited sacred land and soil
From a sea-shell sprung
As the peacock's feathers but in
Glistening ivory even in wea rays dazzling.
Beauty shall have its shrine
Even in the dewy chills of early dans.
Alas! That very Beauty which constituted you took you young.
Perhaps a Sacrifice or a Golgotha?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem