Patient is the man whom
Time has hold of not
Hours fall an endless stream
Sand through the hourglass
Slave of a limited day
Ebbing slowly through a wasted dream
Must we die before we realize that
Time isn't money to spend, but air to breathe?
Let us choose then to spend our
Numbered days living, not dieing
Until we leave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem