*'A weight that grows roots in the marrow,
where light, though called, will not tread.
Doctors offer keys of rust and glass,
each turning in a lockless door.
It is the echo of remedies past,
the hollow sound of hope unfound,
where the mind is both prisoner and warden due,
whispering a cure that never comes.'*
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem