In the broadfield of life
We find only pain and sorrow
Those who pose to be joyous
Are laughing at themselves
Let's think what is there to smile
A short span of life?
Sixty, seventy, probably hundred years
Is not enough to make us joyful
As we have to present our account
Before Him
In such a short period
We can't do much to please Him
Then why should we be happy?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem