On its plinth, behushed, at hall's end
Beneath clock, coaxed backward
Privet-pungent, in its own
Sighed out light's thin regard.
At day's sagging end, dredging up
More dust, shuffling, each nears
Its emotional-responsive charge
As with priest's holy fears.
Filling up for yore, propelled rough
Perpetual mud, that was
So light held what were golden times!
So thoughtless, a gemmed mass!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem