Around a cobwebbed table
the three knights
in full armour
sate
on old and creaking
chairs.
Looked with red eyes
at each other
but silence kept
in that room of cold sadness.
Occasional
from their blood shot eyes
arrows of sparks
at each other shot
speaking
whole volumes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How sad. These knights are too old to fight and are reduced to sitting in chairs and continuing their conflict by silent hate-filled glares. Theirs is a cold sadness because old age has taken the fire out of them but they are still smoldering with hatred. These men are really arrested in societal roles they can no longer perform. They lived by the sword but didn't die by the sword. They are are dying by boredom. This is a remarkable poem.