I lament those lines:
Those fly-by mayfly rhymes
That are not meant to last;
Those spoken, then cast
Away, a hopeful punt in the dark;
That throwaway remark,
Expiring, killed by time;
The bylines which chime
In line with news;
Opinions and views
That are doomed to death
Almost as soon as the breath
Which utters them is spent;
The topic of the moment
That sheds relevance
Ephemeral as silence;
That snappy slipshod snatch
That can only catch
The instant and then dies
With the zeitgeist;
Those clichés which grow stale
And ultimately fail
And are old hat
And that is that:
This erstwhile poem is past;
I lament that it can not long last.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem