The Futility Of Illusions.
The dead yesterday dwells in today,
And soon would pass into tomorrow,
Neither time nor the sense, I do borrow!
No pursuit, no dramatic stage of daily rose,
Can erase the gear of indifferent Time,
The poets, the scientists weaves the vain rime,
What to do and why, -baffle in crisis,
The rats competition run in the mirage for oasis!
The tomorrows would be the same as the yesterdays were,
The tinged glows of the Spring wither in the Autumnal air,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem