In the misty mornings,
When the birds’ sweet calls ring,
I am filled with primordial dread
That the past is never dead.
Remembrance haunts us in the faces
We see—unwelcome traces
Of discordant conversations—
Of ill-advised consummations.
Can we not box up the past in paradise?
Put it where it will be chewed by mice?
Then there will be iron-hulled bliss,
Instead of your cold, indifferent kiss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem