‘Time passes, passes, passes
And mows with scythe
The gains you make turn
Losses, my Monsignor.’
‘But you exaggerate, sir, ’
Said my Monsignor:
‘You exaggerate and
Pessimistic sour’
‘First let me pessimistic
Sour; but then hear my words
There are burning swords
Increasing one by one with
Age and time:
And it be for you to see
Them
For old age so many
Cunning pitfalls has and makes’
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem