Here stand I under disquieted skies unheard
Stirred slowly by cries of her thundering doom
Abloom by fading thought of days of yore
Nor thoughtless of pending days of sorrow avow
How quickly seeds of doubt sprout
Without route consuming all in path
Hath I the forest not made in scraps
Perhaps together we will hunt in the brow
Now flows a babbling brook in sight
Dight with unending flows of memories
Buries of indispensable hands
And gore of a violent pour
For learned have we not from our earning
Returning daily to ire nature
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem