Old is not gold
And the old man
Has gone mad.
I see in young
Nothing as he
Told me everything.
Single man I see
On the hill top
And there he
Wants to chop.
To chop the time
Is very difficult
Said the lady
With the lamp there.
Everything I write
Is but for all welfare.
And you show me
What is in the mire.
But for misanthope
I am the fire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem