昨夜眠れなかったので、ワールドカップの決勝が始まる前に詩を書いてみました。古い英語には数十年触れていないので、ChatGPTさまのお力を借りたことは言うまでもありません。
The Season of Unspoken Farewells
Three moons have waned since first my father lay
Confined beneath the cold and silent roof;
No thought had he of that last mortal day,
Nor left his worldly matters ordered, proof.
His earthly store remains as once it stood,
Untouched by hand, unspoken and forlorn;
And friendships, rent by fate or stubborn mood,
Lie unreconciled, abandoned, bruised, and torn.
On others now the weary burden falls,
To guard the fragments of his fleeting years;
Three months have passed within these pallid walls,
Marked not by triumph, but by silent tears.
What secret tempests stir within his breast?
What mournful reckonings haunt the midnight air?
Doth memory grant his troubled spirit rest,
Or bind him still to grief and old despair?
Would that the heart, ere Time withdraws its light,
Might heal the wounds no mortal hand can see;
For heavier far than Death’s approaching night
Are words unspoken through eternity.
