The lovers' allure, the poets' jewel, the night's King is trite.
The glowing Moon does wane too soon, disappearing with the night.
For the mighty Sun shall seize the day, blithe, warm, and bright.
But with time, from red to tangerine, to amber in twilight,
Even the brightest start, when watched from afar, fades away from sight.
Preaching that permanent is Hope alone, neither Felicity nor Spite!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem