If then we have become
a land of night troubadors
just that
and routine silence in the day
or hoarse cymbals that sound most
just only sound
then where be our Inner Soul:
where my people, you have eyes
but you not weep
you have faces but do not
blush
your have hands yet do not
wring.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem