Deep and solemn tolls the midnight bell.
The moon begins its slow descent, to sink,
Behind the steeply rising western hills,
And yet I lie in bed, awake, to think.
My thoughts turn to the day, yet barely past:
A piece of time that never will repeat.
With all our skills we couldn’t make it stay,
Although we wished it to, with fervored heat.
The days pass, and the sands of time run out.
The step, once light, now falls with heavy weight.
The old man with the scythe lurks in the shadows,
Reminding me we have a future date.
The dear things that I once so took for granted
Are precious now, beyond my ken to tell:
The scent of flowers; whistle of the black bird;
The drowsy hum of bees down in the dell.
To glean the most, in these remaining moments;
To gather fast the stores of joy around;
Spend my last among the flowers; mayhap
Their scent will linger with me underground.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem