When will the time come
that the ailing Saturn
rise
from the ivied cave where
he his face in his
hands
silent weeps:
even we
we,
we my Monsignor
must rise up for it be
time
no longer in the silent
glooms despair and
weep
no longer thought directed
be
pining, but to Eagles high
erect and proud
triumphant victory.
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I would like to translate this poem