The granite king is dead.
An upheaval,
after the age-old silence.
From the prison-diary of a bard,
here we liberate
a flock of pigeons.
Peace will soothe the sky.
If there are clouds,
there will be rifts for rain
My earth (!)
for a garden of roses
we keep mum,
for a shower of heaven
we hide our tears.
Time demolishes
the fear of the ogre.
We sing the song of the human bard
with pigeons,
with roses.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem