If the poem is written against the silence of where nothing happens
And aims to find a way to make life sing of meaning-
But instead finds itself turning only on its own author's pain
Then what is the use of it all?
Let Poetry too go lie in its own grave
And rest in silence
With all the billions of human voices
And endless words which have sought Beauty and Greatness and Fame and Honor and Love
And now must lie silent forever as if they never were-
Poetry too can like all its authors die
And if the human light goes out
Rest in darkness forever as if it never were.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem