All storms of Life abate someway, some day;
All things do have their acme and nadir;
All winding paths must straighten up some way;
All hives will settle down although you stir.
All scattered clouds must merge or disappear;
All turbulence must settle with more time;
All chaos vanishes to reappear;
Life has its changing seasons, not one clime.
All hills must have their slopes and peaks and vales;
All rivers drain into the ocean, sea;
All life must go on despite winds and gales;
All trees must wither, die like you and me.
This is the rule of life for centuries;
There is an end for woes and luxuries.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem