Dear bosom friends, hark!
before the clouds plummet dark:
we all meddle with the nature,
and lament for the worst we nurture.
remember, the sun is to collapse on
his ten-billionth birthday; come on.
not to chant requiem, dear sapling,
over the dead, as we are pondering.
we are but growing supple weakling;
but to wish him an happy day of birth,
falls, in around five billion years, one day.
please allow him to have a natural death,
do not try to swallow those fresh beams astray,
as the enchanted men of black arts but for stay.
we know nothing brings burning warmth
than the hard stay on this ever green earth
for, we people who struggle for the hearth,
as the green leafs die and die for the moth.
with you people i am ready to tolerate,
all the darting beams of boiling heat,
seldom chanting the hymns of abuse,
for a tone of full throat ease to amuse.
without getting even a pinch wound
to live for five billion years around.
no tomorrow night or the day after,
as the offspring wish for pleasure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem