the forgotten streets of our village
that smell of earth and poplar catkins
how quietly pronounce
syllables of his name
and colour our memories
with murmuring of his blood
to salvage what remains
of his being
in epitaphs and graves
the million eyes of his dream
shine in the lanterns of our dissent
how long can the darkness fetter our vision
for heart is a window
and what we behold
must be more than the depth of night
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem