What do I have to give
But the ashes of my life?
Not I, the fresh cheek upon the hill;
Not I, the wind whipping, standing still;
Not I, the sparkling teeth,
Laughing, bragging on the heath;
What do I have to give
But the wreckage of my life?
Shall I be widower still talking of his wife,
Recalling
The journey and peculiarities
Of she who served on hand and knee?
I am but the embers of the tree;
The glowing ashes that once was me;
Pity me, yes, but youth stay free;
There is a wood extending to the sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Enjoyed the flow of this poem. Thanks for sharing.