Wringing hands of mindless purposes, turning away
from shores of life because they are too forlorn
to be a part of being today.
Walking lonely on beaches of sand, thinking
saddened memories that leave us soaked in puddles
of dismay.
Knowing there will be no reprieve in the coming
days or following years, we climb into graves,
made just for our spirits on sides of life beyond
our measure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem