Victoriously the grand suicide fled
Foaming blood, brand of glory, gold, tempest!
O laughter if only to royally invest
My absent tomb purple, down there, is spread.
What! Not even a fragment of all that brightness
Remains: it’s midnight, in the shade that fetes us,
Except from the head there’s a treasure, presumptuous,
That pours without light its spoiled languidness,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem