Beware how quickly
your life is turned into history
or simply crumbles away
like autumn leaves.
Notable persons have
documented pursuits
and everyone else
have friends with memories.
When the last friend
with the last memory
ceases to breathe,
then your purpose and place
is of less value
than the dead animal
crushed on the highway.
There's probably no God
or another existence with flowers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem