the oak that counts the years is bare
the winter wind has stripped its leaves
and so it is for every soul
for time is but a band of thieves
the green will come again in spring
its golden glow may yet deceive
not all will wake from darkened sleep
and those who do may surely grieve
beneath these trees grow daffodils
in pageants filled with springtime grace
the ancestors and silent past
have found a final resting place
a generation passes on
their spirits scattered by the wind
the faded stones forget the names
where epitaphs no more pretend
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Corresponding to the scene the verses paint the impression of the photo so nicely.
Thanks Dimitrios. I appreciate your comments always.