Some a flowing field of corn
some a barren plate
they die if they are ever born
falls quietly to their fate!
There's little in your hand to choose
not much that you can do
surely isn't a fun to lose
knowing so fast they grew!
What was once the face's grace
boastful glory of crown
vanish without leaving a trace
black or white or brown!
Know the truth bare and harsh
whatever color we dye
from sapling to the tallest grass
is destined to wane and die!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem