From what morass seeps
Night's murkiness?
Slimy, skirting walks'
Lava-hot impress
Of palpatating joys.
What water, dead
Of whose anguished looks
Sucked in, ahead?
Loathsome in its frog's
Belching, day's rose
As decaying matter
Brought to a close.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem