Birthday poem for a friend
Our lives are the bottom-land, where we grow
From year to year, the time escrow'd,
As we trade each year, one year of living
(Not really knowing what we're giving)
Someday the sands will all run out,
And the clocks face seem to pout,
So all the precious hours, attend
(Still, dream of life that has no end)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem