Wept the bastion wall, and trickles of tears
Precious as precious Orient gems fell
Slow by the drop against the wall
On certain special night of fairy spell:
Few words, few words, my Monsignor,
The Orient’s wealth was there for taking
Yet so many passed and honked indifferent:
And yet the Orient weeping treasure
Of the old bastion continued without measure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem