The noose that's smoothed by living years of wear
will see us choked and speechless, hemped in mime,
Some thugs of Time will trash us, dumped on dare;
Some lane will hide our murdered mortal prime.
So we may plea, cry loud some desperate vow,
profess we'll never turn the culprits in;
but Time shuns care, mad-wild to prey on now;
then laughs out loud as dying waits within....
But when we're old, so old we just can't care,
Time then seems kind and sleeves the dial of crime;
He jokes! His gags just kill us, we declare;
but words, all words seem elegies in rhyme.
Time springs for tea and thick jam of reprieve,
gives weak regret- but nudges us to leave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is a good indictment of the minutes of despair that becomes our lives.