I passed the place four crosses mark;
I shook my head and sighed.
The flowers draped upon them live -
It was four youths that died.
The intersection is a grave
Where spirits, restless, roam,
As they would do at any tomb
That keeps them from their home.
I felt one run across my mind
As I was passing through.
It was unsettled, churning foam,
And I was troubled, too.
An afternoon of frolic o'er,
Like fall when color's passed,
The highlights of the day all gone;
The talk and laughter - last.
What happened as their curtain closed,
So they were crushed or flung?
What note was on their lips or hearts,
The final song they sung?
The red eye glared; they did not see.
Was it a tale one told?
Or was it, 'Would you look at that? '
Or something else fool's gold?
Lives perch upon the precipice,
And men remain or fall
For causes of the greatest worth,
Or some not great at all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem