Dilapidated mind-scapes,
grown old escaping misery.
In blossoms of youth
remains a garden, walled,
none, maybe, have found,
which remains, untended,
as fresh as youth's first folly,
watered by his soul's impertinent rains.
In life will it sustain him.
In death may he find it again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem