Time is flying. Work is undone.
Everything but desire is limited.
I've deceived myself, no one else—
It's beyond my comprehension.
Past haunts me. Present tortures me.
What follows... I daren't tell.
Recollections faint and flickering
Lead but to despair.
What else?
Mountains fly.
Rivers dry up.
To myself I address:
This land of yours is in a shambles.
Despair, dejection,
Apathy and inertia,
Creep slowly and steadily up.
How long shall I grope in such futility?
Thought itself is shadowy.
Life, an empty dream, for lifeless creatures
Appears to me as dejection absolute:
A state where I keep pace in vain
With time's flow—
A protraction in absurdity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem