Upon this cliff, rests, Silence,
Series of dreams, broken
Deep the running river, sits
My very shadow, wounded
I shall throw the last stone
To see how much it bleeds
Listen to echoes of its sobs
Watch the waves, tears sails
Across the other bank, meets
The sweet scented herbs
Where once grew, the bright daisy
Like a shadow of gold tinted clouds
Lies still, withered, stained petals
Reminiscence, memories once forgone
Of the river's dulcet sounds upon her virgin's hue
Ere the wintry blasts of prodigal wasty wilds
Scattered her beauty to the strumpet winds
Now the waters hold a candle to her shames
Ye moral police,
Wasn't every harlot once a virgin?
Every dead once living?
Every saint once a sinner?
And the devil once a god?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem