Its strange is'nt it?
How new born and ancient
Look the same.
Fresh drawn, in perfection,
Only to have time and codes
Etch their lines in soft slate,
And to have them fade
Into the anonimity
Of old age,
Like fallen petals
Under the harsh sun.
Dont burn me,
But bury me in white,
Black is for the living.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem