Under this moonlight, the birds softly dream
In the trees. Under this moonlight, the words,
Come thick and fast like golden yellow beams,
Yet tinged with a certain sorrow. This world
Is often absurd. Moments of beauty
Are increasingly rare in a restless
Age, that has forgotten how to perceive
The sublime, as it's lacking in stillness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem