The wind it whistles
The sighing tune
Lost within the
Heart's tribune
Which consoles the
Masses of the mind
Forcing the lonely
Soul to bind
Within themselves
A growing disdain
Which grips them
Like a rusty chain
And drains the life
From out their eyes
Leaving the throat
Only silent cries
With which to mouth
The growing loss
Which devours them leaving
Their bones to toss
Into the pit
From which their pains
Grow like vines
Throughout their veins
Until nothing is left
Save questions of dread
Which rise from the earth
Like the creeping dead
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem