After many hundred years when my fame
Will reach the sky, when new poets reading
My poems will rejoice and when my name
Will be uttered in air, where will I sing
Then my new songs in which flower-garden?
Will I sing at all? How can a bird live
Without singing? Life will be a burden
If I can’t sing. Oceans are born to give,
Not to take water; Birds are born to sing,
Not to listen. After many hundred
Years when on earth all will rejoice reading
My poems, where will I be? On which bed
Will I lie? Lying, which song will I compose?
Will I find there these men, this moon, this rose?
