At youth's verdant door
I sang:
of love,
of sorrow
of heroism and honor -
all that I had so little seen.
At the "mids" I crooned of lost opportunity,
lost ambition,
yet full of pride.
At age I sing softly
of all that has been,
of all I am grateful for,
and the eternal score
which is to come.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem