To afford the scene is torture, as it speaks,
For always is the scene, and the scenery.
Or will tomorrow sustain the ideas of your dream,
That wakes this hour up, and then the summary
Of your life extends to the utmost limit.
Goals of the future reside in the head
To stun and stagger us, with its own initiative,
Without the flowers and plants and planets.
To afford the pain and sting
We forsake years of living well,
We are feeble in this forsaken way
And the way of the hour is fought.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem