Our life is a bed of withered roses A fresh melody now spent.
Our life is a waning key lively when struck. A woman's firm breasts sagged when suckled. Our life is a dream
a starry child can't dream again And so he makes it up. So is our life without God
Absurd!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Me commenting ten years later