my summer wine has come to its end
as the fall winds blow
i can no longer just pretend
and not have you know
the joys i felt in the spring
and all the summer fun
birds no longer sing
and all joy is done
tis time to close all the windows and doors
in preparation of the cruel cold
i know ill be walking the floors
as my body begins to feel old
alas poor robert i knew him well
better than he knew his own
from great heights he fell
lying in the rubble i hear him moan
as people passing by
look on with such disdain
and ask the question why
no answer can make me sane
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem