With sweet celerity I delve deep into a darker night,
The devilish dell bespeaks with attitude of darkness;
The rich men awaken at the sign of dawn, with great
Dolour, so a dome stands to rectify the atmosphere.
Then the dingle of a eminent emperor, evolving from
Dust, scattered by the winds of winter and weeping.
I grasp the shingle and the rain, with hollow hands,
Cleaving to misery of the weather like a cat of clever.
To dulcify the mood, my charms are built from paper,
As I read words of fervid pleasure, glowing hot with fire.
They fulminate, shining forever, like the mightiest swords
And the dangerous lords of time, so words mean too much.
My jeering is my laughing and my laughing is my fleering,
Conquered by some who see gases erupting from sea-bed.
Words are like oceans, as they dally along the horizon,
Like the copses in the forest, and the valleys of the heaven.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem