My grand granddaughter sleeps a lot;
She's waking to the world
Like Rip Van Winkle must have stretched
When consciousness was swirled.
My old, old father sleeps a lot,
Retreating from the world.
I visit, finding him asleep
In chair, or in bed, curled.
And so it seems, at the extremes
Of life upon the earth,
There is a differing sameness
In exit and in birth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem