With every passing day
I grow
not older
but all the more myself
Does it make me old
accepting what I will be?
Does the young spirit have to be
a sweet treasure of denial?
Accept it, my son,
said God to the man
To look back in regret
is to look forward in fear
for you are never willing to
accept it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem