They fall from grace to grass,
aged, scorched and dehydrated,
fluttering away further
the vanity of previous
greenness and elevated times,
reminding us of the fragility
of life,
the futility of striving to hang on
when time is up.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
There is a time to be born and a time to die. After all our earthly enterprises, we retire, grow old, become less useful or not useful at all and then die. So when you are at the peak of your exploits, remember that you will soon grow old and die.
Kingsley Egbukole, absolutely!