Drifting away,
On the lamb-gentle river;
On the thunder-rumbling ocean:
A raft whose direction none fathoms,
Unbridled as an escaping horse.
On the flee,
Yet at ease.
Swift to cloak the unruly ball of light.
Gentle as it unveils the timid gleam:
When pervading the revolving sphere
Is the Sacrosanct Artist's dark ink.
Fremd a friend!
Enemy of Adam and of Eve!
Forward and forward — it strides.
Blind, deaf and dumb but never dead.
No man is known!
None is heard nor spoken to!
Aloft to the catch
But for the wise.
Goes nowhere and stays nowhere.
A perfect circle it draws
As, merrily, it goes round;
Albeit engendering shuddering bodies
Effluxing ocean of perspiration.
Overflowing as a water fount,
But no!
Never is it ever appraised
For it withholds its holdings.
The rain it locks
Behind the bars of the cloud.
For maybe,
There may be another chance,
Hope is sent on an errand to autumn
But it is blinded by the dry leaves
Floating lifelessly in the whispering breeze.
Are all chances farewelling?
Would you care to give more time, time?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem