To be an astronaut would be fun.
Take a rocket to the moon, or blown to kingdom come.
Either way you'll see the stars,
whole, one would hope, or in many parts.
Distance is irrelevant, this we cannot yet comprehend.
Time, on the other hand, is guaranteed one day to end.
So there you have it, life's history captured in a spaceman’s helmet bowl.
Except to say farewell or, as the Americans would say, 'goodbye yoll'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem