It's wonderful evening, and at last
The crowning of the beauty of being...
It is not in human flair to command,
As mortals don't owe living anything!
Virgin tomorrow as well shall come.
And the feeble fighting on must go,
Despite ill signs of encircling doom,
The dawning of pinching pain and woe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem