We are but flowers budding in
The summer sun.
To blossom, seed, then wither,
Our petals drying
And dying:
Blown away and scattered
By the howling wind.
Those seeds,
However,
Then sprout and grow
To take our place
And thus complete
The Cyclical Circle
Of Life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem