The arrows of indignity stick deep in harrowed strife
Beneath deaths dark tincture, against the tides of life,
Whose fertile furrows sown with salt, no issue there will grow.
The sea is hued in redness and the blood of martyr's flow
So here within this town of tombs, no hectic hero bright,
But only those in widows weeds, who weep deep in the night.
I know naught of heaven and even less of hell
And all you'll hear within these walls, is the tolling of the bell.
So look upon this desert, where once a garden bloomed
And remember we once loved and lost, who are forever doomed.
We who lie here are but barren stock, ever shall be so.
And know one day you'll join us, when its your turn to go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem