In Spring I see the blossoms there lying in the dust.
Tis sad but it's a phase of things like iron turned to rust.
We cannot change the plan of life which nature has ordained.
There are unchanging happenings, immutably ingrained.
When I see blossoms in the dust, I think of jaded lives
Of men who've vied for fortune that never quite arrives.
Most men are left disgruntled with what the fates bestow.
And grimly wait for dusty death as trudging on they go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem