Life at its best is quite fleeting,
but is still goes on and on,
I tire of people speaking,
yet I'll talk until the dawn.
The world it makes you cynical,
thank our endless, imperfect ways;
still the here and now grows brighter
too much to fit in the day.
Politicians are all liars,
both my side and the other,
but I wouldn't trust myself there,
even if I had my druthers.
Kids are crazy sociopaths,
but damn if they're not cute,
a thousand million have been born,
yet somehow they still seem new.
It all seems tragic, yet sublime,
though we're just here for a spell;
a world we own but never know,
our home of Heaven and Hell…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
good; don't know about just here for a spell though.