I do not envy those who,
Cloud-like, star-bound,
Drift in on silver tides
Over the surface of volcanic rock.
Their brilliance,
The which we tried to emulate,
Will disappear,
Like lights behind the traveler
At journey's end.
You'll ask of their going.
Newspaper-dried and yellow,
Carried off by any passing wind.
In imitation of life...
Like a dead bird's wing
Swaying as the horses ride,
Clinging to a corpse.
(This poem was written by my son, Alexander Eichen)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Loved it. Take care.