Time's sombre lashings of light, down-blown
Autumnal edged, house and street.
Of Death's shadowy fright are we struck;
Red stained; inescapably fleet.
How can we survive what leaves its mark
Mortally on this grant of
Carefree days, beauteous for what sip
Bloom-bent our butterfly love?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem