Nima Yooshij - The Cold Stove

Surviving from very distant nights
At a silent path towards the jungle
A little stove made of stone,
Contains some cold ashes.

Like my melancholy thoughts buried in the dust,
Bearing sketches of everything,
A tale whose fruit is but pain.

My sweet day that agreed with me
Has become an incongruous sketch,
It has grown cold and turned into stone
And the autumnal breathe of my life, turns yellow the spring's face.

Still surviving from very distant nights
At a silent path towards the jungle
A little stove made of stone,
Contains some cold ashes.

Nima Yooshij

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cold-stove/