Recalling the spring time of life.
A time when there is no distress.
A time when we are being addressed.
The old folks admonishing of the road ahead.
We listen not coz we are obstinate.
Lured by the luster of this planet.
All the struggles? For the fame or name.
Blinded by the fortune made.
What a dangerous game,
Slipping away is the youthfulness.
Leaving the body all alone,
To face the Autumn years.
Then come complains, finding someone to blame.
For when there are no plans made,
For the life ahead,
Regret follows for wasting the youthfulness.
Now the body lies in distress tormented by the past all alone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem