In these autumn years, life begins it dark decline:
When the rusted November of the soul
Ushers in cold, hard rain and tainted gold.
Sometimes a strange presence appears at the
Edge of understanding, but it's fleeting.
It is as nebulous as dreams about
Imagined Edens or prayers in praise
Of spurious, immaculate kingdoms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem