'There's a storm coming, ' he said.
'Just a passing front, ' I replied.
'Nothing to it. Shouldn't last long.'
'Anything, ' he chuckled, 'to keep the
lawn before it burns out.'
I knew what he meant.
We spoke in a common tongue;
the language of our ancestors,
the language of earth-
the same dirt from which we
were both sprung, from which we
drew our commonality.
I knew EXACTLY what he meant-
death is inevitable.
It doesn't matter if you
burn out or fade away, and
only the wealthy can afford
green in high summer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem