When its full, sands together,
Only when its empty, doe’s it matter,
A turn of a vial, rejuvenates its style,
When full no attention doe’s it gather?
Only when its empty, doe’s it matter,
As complacent that we are,
Only when there is no more to be found,
do we contemplate an answer.
Very wise and transcribed into that kind of rhythm one hears only from poetry. Idea justified by the style.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Excellent write, Charles.Your title says it all. Warm regards, Sandra