So send here woe, 
hung all in black, 
to wander until stars wane.
Why, brother? 
Am I spurned as witch? 
Yet, speech soon dies.
Illusions are futile -
shattered patterns docked.
Warm - but my body falters.
Mirrors of death reflected, 
such was seen then, 
Soon to gaze upon yon heights.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    