Up where the long avenues besiege mountainous wastes,
A little star went to heaven like a little star in smallness;
Up where the strange mists roamed delighted in existence,
We matched the ideals of a bygone age in such light.
The pressure is when your eastern skies meet the western,
The volumes of ghosts persuade a lighter fuel of art.
This mountain of the highest art is a clothing of rock,
Fixed in its splendour as a massive gale and force.
The belongings of cherished beings sustains the night,
When prowess displays itself in mighty sounds of signs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem