Age old records lost within pages of once upon a tree.
Lasting impressions ringing through the years, standing
silently upright, waiting to be written upon.
Slicing into the past, our present seems to be flaccidly
indignant, letting fall, loosely, progress tumbles in.
Picking up footfalls of yesterday, our futures lie in
dirty heaps within stagnant pools, returning never, the
advice of wise men over fools.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem