We die from time to time;
We cannot reverse the clock.
We are born, we grow, and we pack;
We get sick, we heal, and we reach our prime;
We get older and we die effortlessly,
Without being cognizant of the damage.
We see another day and we age;
We are dying slowly and surely.
Let's go back to the videotape,
Let's reexamine the face in the mirror,
And take a curious look at an old picture;
We will see that the images in the old tape
Look younger and happier.
Time always does that to us, and the past
Is full of great memories that pass
Like the wind during a stormy weather.
We Die From Time to Time,
Even during prime time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem