The conflicts in our union weren't resolved
leaving much too large an area—
yielding nothing to reconstruct
or a common place for us to dwell.
Relinquishing the gusto of our youth
downcast, moving in listless travels
from our original design.
Gratifying to love's delight… another victim.
Sacrificed upon the bright prejudicial cross—
pleasures cherished
for want of calculated moves
that were found prematurely discarded.
Replacing one commitment for another—
religion has no place for communion between lovers.
An epitaph written on the wind
and eagerly recorded.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem