Nothing is there,
The mirror, the moon, the decanter,
All are empty,
The page of heart has lost reverence of the words
And meanings like a throne
Of a condemned emperor,
My existence suspends in the span of time,
The mirror has become
A door of contrition,
And my obsolete reflection
Is annoyed with the mirror.
In the folds of time,
There is neither any fresh branch of the morn,
Nor any elegant eve,
But only the pigment of grief.
O! The lunatic wind of the countenance
Of the world of future,
There should descend
Some divine messages,
From the blue plate of a moon,
But in the silence of the wild night
There exists such a profound dark
As I cannot see, falling moments from the hands,
The lances hitting the astonished eyes
Cannot be stopped.
Except for perpetual grief,
There exists nothing in the purgatory of a soul,
Neither any stone of punishment,
Nor any moment of reward.
O! My verse of future,
I have commenced giving you vent
With the words of castigation.
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