A bright orange sky
As daylight starts to die
Behind the mountains sinking low
So soon to lose it's warming glow
Like our days spent on earth
Time, can you tell me what it's worth
No dollar figure can be given
So short, this life we're living
A baby soon to be an old man
All part of the Maker's master plan
The cradle becomes a grave
As we live our lives, our Maker's humble slave
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem