The pride and glory of man
Are but temporary things
He amasses all he wants
With his whims and caprices
Defying nature's laws;
And blossoms in the morning
But he like mushroom crumble
In the afternoon sun.
He soon abandons the world
Hiding his face in a crypt
And he's no more;
The princes and the princesses weep
And grieve in bitter anguish;
Unable to learn a thing
That struggle and splendour
Are but vain glories and temporary things
And when man departs;
His luggage in excess remains.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem