Yesterday are the echoes of the morrow,
Echoes of hard times, reflection of the dinky past in a mirror.
You may not be able to behold the images, the dinky images
In the facade of the eyes, in the eyes of the soul.
Every second swift pass, every breath from our nostrils are not gather-able,
The future becomes today, today swings on the on the seesaw of time
And at the twinkle of an eye, today dies in the hearth of yesterday
The past is the final rest.
It seems man lives in the past
And will pass……………..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem