Shall our memories live, when the rain drops above us
And marks our last home with the rushing of mud water?
Shall the voices of those who profess that they love us
Ever mention our names, as we dreamlessly sleep?
Will their eyes ever dim at some fond recollection,
Or their hands ever plant a small flower over the breast,
Or will they gaze with a sad circumspection
At the stone tablets, which tell of our last solemn rest?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem