September of 1921.
Little George, sleeping peacefully in his crib,
Is awakened and fed.
Diapers are checked.
Shoes are tied.
A sweater is slipped on his arms
And partially buttoned.
Now, a buggy appears and
Little George is transported outside
To bask in the autumn sunshine.
September of 2008.
George, now 87 and sleeping peacefully
In a long term care facility,
Is awakened and fed.
Diapers are checked.
Shoes are tied.
A sweater is slipped on his arms
And partially buttoned.
Now, a wheelchair appears and
George is transported outside
To bask in the autumn sunshine.
Helpless when we're born
And helpless when we die.
It's the way it is.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The way it is, you tell it like it is. No bs, and no sugar-coating. Keep on, GL