The cringing doubts that in his mind were strewn,
Erode what's left of his diminished pride,
All the resolve to fight faded and soon,
As fallen, his soul grimaces inside;
The tolling bells bewail his ebbing days,
The same that pealed in erstwhile revelry
When lauding victories of yesterdays,
While glories yet were in full heraldry;
But laurels now turned strangers to his head,
A specter naught remained of his great deeds,
And if to gallows all these struggles lead,
His grave, he hopes, would be a boon to weeds;
……And from the stage where now his story ends,
……His foes looked nicer than his supposed friends.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Impressive Sonnet, well versed, pleasure to read.