On bookshelves accumulates
More what, for decomposure
Is coughed; or dust, seen.
Catacombs of lives, as on
Edge, crouched through, have been.
Imposed on of Time, as those
To Rome's netherworld that in
A solemn awe descend;
For the beauty of their faith
Who died, to commend.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem